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V 


OR, 


THE  BO  MAH' CE  OF  MOHTE  BEHL 

BY 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

VOL.  II. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 


I  87  6. 


Copyright,  i860. 

BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  II. 


Chap.  Page 

I.  The  Pedigree  of  Monte  Beni  ...  7 

II.  Myths . 19 

III.  The  Owl  Toyver  ...  .  .  30 

IV.  On  the  Battlements  ....  39 

V.  Donatello’s  Bust  .....  50 

VI.  The  Marble  Saloon  ....  58 

VII.  Scenes  by  the  Way . 70 

VIII.  Pictured  Windows  .  .  ....  83 

IX.  Market-Day  in  Perugia  ....  93 


X.  The  Bronze  Pontiff’s  Benediction  .  100 


XI.  Hilda’s  Tower . 109 

XII.  The  Emptiness  of  Picture-Galleries  .  II7 

XIIT.  Altars  and  Incense . 128 

XIV.  The  World’s  Cathedral  .  .  .  ]38 

XV.  Hilda  and  a  Friend . 148 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


XVI.  Snowdrops  and  Maidenly  Delights  .  159 

XVTI.  Reminiscences  op  Miriam  .  .  .  169 

XVIII.  The  Extinction  op  a  Lamp  .  .  .  178 

XIX.  The  Deserted  Shrine  ....  188 

XX.  The  Flight  op  Hilda’s  Doves  .  .  199 

XXL  A  Walk  on  the  Campagna  .  .  .  208 

XXII.  The  Peasant  and  Contadina  .  .  .  216 

XXIII.  A  Scene  in  the  Corso  ....  227 

XXIV.  A  Frolic  op  the  Carnival  .  .  .  236 

XXV.  Miriam,  Hilda,  Kenyon,  Donatello  .  247 


THE 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


laiiuly  liistory  and  hereditary  peculiarities  of  the  Counts 
of  Monte  Beni.  There  was  a  pedigree,  the  later  portion 
of  which  —  that  is  to  say,  for  a  little  more  than  a  thou¬ 
sand  years  —  a  genealogist  would  have  found  delight  in 
tracing  out,  link  by  link,  and  authenticating  by  records 
and  documentary  evidences.  It  would  have  been  as 
difficult,  however,  to  follow  up  the  stream  of  Donatello’s 
ancestry  to  its  dim  source,  as  travellers  have  found  it  to 
reach  the  mysterious  fountains  of  the  Nile.  And,  far 
beyond  the  region  of  definite  and  demonstrable  fact,  a 
romancer  might  have  strayed  into  a  region  of  old  poetry, 
where  the  rich  soil,  so  long  uncultivated  and  untrodden, 
had  lapsed  into  nearly  its  primeval  state  of  wilderness. 
Among  those  antique  paths,  now  overgrown  with  tan- 


8 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


gled  and  riotous  vegetation,  the  wanderer  must  needs 
follow  his  own  guidance,  and  arrive  nowhither  at  last. 

The  race  of  Monte  Beni,  beyond  a  doubt,  was  one  of 
the  oldest  in  Italy,  where  families  appear  to  survive  at 
least,  if  not  to  flourish,  on  their  half-decayed  roots,  of- 
tener  than  in  England  or  E ranee.  It  came  down  in  a 
broad  track  from  the  Middle  Ages ;  but,  at  epochs  an¬ 
terior  to  those,  it  was  distinctly  visible  in  the  gloom  of 
the  period  before  chivalry  put  forth  its  flower ;  and  fur¬ 
ther  still,  we  are  almost  afraid  to  say,  it  was  seen,  though 
with  a  fainter  and  wavering  course,  in  the  early  morn  of 
Christendom,  when  the  Roman  Empire  had  hardly  begun 
to  show  symptoms  of  decline.  At  that  venerable  distance, 
the  heralds  gave  up  the  lineage  in  despair. 

But  where  written  record  left  the  genealogy  of  Monte 
Beni,  tradition  took  it  up,  and  carried  it  without  dread  or 
shame  beyond  the  Imperial  ages  into  the  times  of  the 
Roman  republic  ;  beyond  those,  again,  into  the  epoch  of 
kingly  rule.  Nor  even  so  remotely  among  the  mossy 
centuries  did  it  pause,  but  strayed  onward  into  that  gray 
antiquity  of  which  there  is  no  token  left,  save  its  cavern¬ 
ous  tombs,  and  a  few  bronzes,  and  some  quaintly  wrought 
ornaments  of  gold,  and  gems  with  mystic  figures  and  in¬ 
scriptions.  There,  or  thereabouts,  the  line  was  supposed 
to  have  had  its  origin  in  the  sylvan  life  of  Etruria,  while 
Italy  was  yet  guiltless  of  Rome. 

Of  course,  as  we  regret  to  say,  the  earlier  and  very 
much  the  larger  portion  of  this  respectable  descent  — 
and  the  same  is  true  of  many  briefer  pedigrees  —  must 
be  looked  upon  as  altogether  mythical.  Still,  it  threw  a 
romantic  interest  around  the  unquestionable  antiquity  of 
the  Monte  Beni  family,  and  over  that  tract  of  their  own 
vines  and  fig-trees,  beneath  the  shade  of  which  they  had 
unquestionably  dwelt  for  immemorial  ages.  And  there 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


9 


they  had  laid  the  foundations  of  their  tower,  so  long  ago 
that  one  half  of  its  height  was  said  to  be  sunken  under 
the  surface  and  to  hide  subterranean  chambers  which  once 
were  cheerful  with  the  olden  sunshine. 

One  story,  or  myth,  that  had  mixed  itself  up  with  their 
mouldy  genealogy,  interested  the  sculptor  by  its  wild,  and 
perhaps  grotesque,  yet  not  unfascinating  peculiarity.  He 
caught  at  it  the  more  eagerly,  as  it  afforded  a  shadowy 
and  whimsical  semblance  of  explanation  for  the  likeness 
which  he,  with  Miriam  and  Hilda,  had  seen  or  fancied, 
betM^een  Donatello  and  the  Daun  of  Praxiteles. 

The  Monte  Beni  family,  as  this  legend  averred,  drew 
their  origin  from  the  Pelasgic  race,  who  peopled  Italy  in 
times  that  may  be  called  prehistoric.  It  was  the  same 
noble  breed  of  men,  of  Asiatic  birth,  that  settled  in 
Greece ;  the  same  happy  and  poetic  kindred  who  dwelt  in 
Arcadia,  and  —  whether  they  ever  lived  such  life  or  not 
—  enriched  the  world  with  dreams,  at  least,  and  fables, 
lovely,  if  unsubstantial,  of  a  Golden  Age.  In  those  de¬ 
licious  times,  when  deities  and  demigods  appeared  famil¬ 
iarly  on  earth,  mingling  with  its  inhabitants  as  friend  with 
friend, — when  nymphs,  satyrs,  and  the  whole  train  of  clas¬ 
sic  faith  or  fable  hardly  took  pains  to  hide  themselves  in 
the  primeval  woods,  —  at  that  auspicious  period  the  line¬ 
age  of  Monte  Beni  had  its  rise.  Its  progenitor  was  a 
being  not  altogether  human,  yet  partaking  so  largely  of 
the  gentlest  human  qualities,  as  to  be  neither  awful  nor 
shocking  to  the  imagination.  A  sylvan  creature,  native 
among  the  woods,  had  loved  a  mortal  maiden,  and  —  per¬ 
haps  by  kindness,  and  the  subtile  courtesies  which  love 
might  teach  to  his  simplicity,  or  possibly  by  a  ruder 
wooing  —  had  won  her  to  his  haunts.  In  due  time,  he 
gained  her  womanly  affection ;  and,  making  their  bridal 
bower,  for  aught  we  know,  in  the  hollow  of  a  great  tree, 

I* 


10 


ROMANCE  OE  MONTE  BENI. 


the  pair  spent  a  happy  wedded  life  in  that  ancient  neigh¬ 
borhood  where  now  stood  Donatello’s  tower. 

From  this  union  sprang  a  vigorous  progeny  that  took 
its  plaee  unquestioned  among  human  families.  In  that 
age,  however,  and  long  afterwards,  it  showed  the  inefface¬ 
able  lineaments  of  its  wild  paternity  :  it  was  a  pleasant 
and  kindly  race  of  men,  but  capable  of  savage  fierceness, 
and  never  quite  restrainable  within  the  trammels  of  social 
law.  They  were  strong,  aetive,  genial,  cheerful  as  the 
sunshine,  passionate  as  the  tornado.  Their  lives  were 
rendered  blissful  by  an  unsought  harmony  with  nature. 

But,  as  centuries  passed  away,  the  Faun’s  wild  blood 
had  necessarily  been  attempered  with  constant  intermix¬ 
tures  from  the  more  ordinary  streams  of  human  life.  It 
lost  many  of  its  original  qualities,  and  served,  for  the 
most  part,  only  to  bestow  an  uneonquerable  vigor  which 
kept  the  family  from  extinction,  and  enabled  them  to 
make  their  own  part  good  throughout  the  perils  and  rude 
emergencies  of  their  interminable  descent.  In  the  con¬ 
stant  wars  with  which  Italy  was  plagued,  by  tlie  dissen¬ 
sions  of  her  petty  states  and  republics,  there  was  a  de¬ 
mand  for  native  hardihood. 

The  successive  members  of  the  Monte  Beni  family 
showed  valor  and  policy  enough,  at  all  events,  to  keep 
their  hereditary  possessions  out  of  the  clutch  of  grasping 
neighbors,  and  probably  differed  very  little  from  the  other 
feudal  barons  with  whom  they  fought  and  feasted.  Such 
a  degree  of  conformity  with  the  manners  of  the  genera¬ 
tions,  through  which  it  survived,  must  have  been  essential 
to  the  prolonged  continuance  of  the  race. 

It  is  well  known,  however,  that  any  hereditary  pecul¬ 
iarity  -  as  a  supernumerary  finger,  or  an  anomalous 
shape  of  feature,  like  the  Austrian  lip  — is  wont  to  show 
itself  in  a  family  after  a  very  wayward  fashion.  It  skips 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


11 


at  its  own  pleasure  along  the  line,  and,  latent  for  half  a 
century  or  so,  crops  out  again  in  a  great-grandson.  And 
thus,  it  was  said,  from  a  period  beyond  memory  or  recoi-d, 
there  had  ever  and  anon  been  a  descendant  of  the  Monte 
Benis  bearing  nearly  all  the  characteristics  that  were  at¬ 
tributed  to  the  original  founder  of  the  race.  Some  tradi¬ 
tions  even  went  so  far  as  to  enumerate  the  ears,  covered 
with  a  delicate  fur,  and  shaped  like  a  pointed  leaf,  among 
the  proofs  of  authentic  descent  which  were  seen  in  these 
favored  individuals.  We  appreciate  the  beauty  of  such 
tokens  of  a  nearer  kindred  to  the  great  family  of  nature 
than  other  mortals  bear ;  but  it  would  be  idle  •to  ask 
credit  for  a  statement  which  might  be  deemed  to  partake 
so  largely  of  the  grotesque. 

But  it  was  indisputable  that,  once  in  a  century,  or 
oftener,  a  son  of  Monte  Beni  gathered  into  himself  the 
scattered  qualities  oty  his  race,  and  reproduced  the  charac¬ 
ter  that  had  been  assigned  to  it  from  immemorial  times. 
Beautiful,  strong,  brave,  kindly,  sincere,  of  honest  im¬ 
pulses,  and  endowed  with  simple  tastes  and  the  love  of 
homely  pleasures,  he  was  believed  to  possess  gifts  by 
which  he  could  associate  himself  with  the  wild  things  of 
the  forests,  and  with  the  fowls  of  the  air,  and  could  feel 
a  sympathy  even  with  the  trees,  among  which  it  was  his 
joy  to  dwell.  On  the  other  hand,  there  were  deficiencies 
both  of  intellect  and  heart,  and  especially,  as  it  seemed,  in 
the  development  of  the  higher  portion  of  man’s  nature. 
These  defects  were  less  perceptible  in  early  youth,  but 
showed  themselves  more  strongly  with  advancing  age, 
when,  as  the  animal  spirits  settled  down  upon  a  lower 
level,  the  representative  of  the  Monte  Benis  was  apt  to 
become  sensual,  addicted  to  gross  pleasures,  heavy,  un¬ 
sympathizing,  and  insulated  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a 
surly  selfishness. 


12 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


A  similar  change,  indeed,  is  no  more  than  what  we 
constantly  observe  to  take  place  in  persons  who  are  not 
careful  to  substitute  other  graces  for  those  which  they  in¬ 
evitably  lose  along  with  the  quick  sensibility  and  joyous 
vivacity  of  youth.  At  worst,  the  reigning  Count  of 
Monte  Beni,  as  his  hair  grew  white,  was  still  a  jolly  old 
fellow  over  his  flask  of  wine,  —  the  wine  that  Bacchus 
himself  was  fabled  to  have  taught  his  sylvan  ancestor  how 
to  express,  and  from  what  choicest  grapes,  which  would 
ripen  only  in  a  certain  divinely  favored  portion  of  the 
Monte  Beni  vineyard. 

Theefamily,  be  it  observed,  vrere  both  proud  and 
ashamed  of  these  legends;  but  whatever  part  of  them 
they  might  consent  to  incorporate  into  their  ancestral 
history,  they  steadily  repudiated  all  that  referred  to  their 
one  distinctive  feature,  the  pointed  and  furry  ears.  In 
a  great  many  years  past,  no  sober  credence  had  been 
yielded  to  the  mythical  portion  of  the  pedigree.  It 
might,  however,  be  considered  as  typifying  some  such 
assemblage  of  qualities  — in  this  case,  chiefly  remarkable 
for  their  simplicity  and  naturalness  —  as,  when  they  re¬ 
appear  in  successive  generations,  constitute  what  we  call 
family  character.  The  sculptor  found,  moreover,  on  the 
evidence  of  some  old  portraits,  that  the  physical  features 
of  the  race  had  long  been  similar  to  what  he  now  saw 
them  in  Donatello.  With  accumulating  years,  it  is  true, 
the  Monte  Beni  face  had  a  tendency  to  look  grim  and 
savage ;  and,  in  two  or  three  instances,  the  family  pic¬ 
tures  glared  at  the  spectator  in  the  eyes  like  some  surly 
animal,  that  had  lost  its  good-humor  when  it  outlived  its 
playfulness. 

The  young  Count  accorded  his.  guest  full  liberty  to  in¬ 
vestigate  the  personal  annals  of  these  pictured  worthies, 
as  well  as  ail  the  rest  of  Ils  progenitors  ;  and  ample  m; 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


13 


terials  were  at  hand  in  many  chests  of  worm-eaten  papers 
and  yellow  parchments,  that  had  been  gathering  into 
larger  and  dustier  piles  ever  since  the  dark  ages.  But, 
to  confess  the  truth,  the  information  afforded  by  these 
musty  documents  was  so  much  more  prosaic  than  what 
Kenyon  acquired  from  Tomaso’s  legends,  that  even  the 
superior  authenticity  of  the  former  could  not  reconcile 
him  to  its  dulness. 

What  especially  delighted  the  sculptor,  was  the  analogy 
between  Donatello’s  character,  as  he  himself  knew  it,  and 
those  peculiar  traits  which  the  old  butler’s  narrative  as¬ 
sumed  to  have  been  long  hereditary  in  the  race.  He  was 
amused  at  finding,  too,  that  not  only  Tomaso  but  the 
peasantry  of  the  estate  and  neighboring  village  recog¬ 
nized  his  friend  as  a  genuine  Monte  Beni,  of  the  original 
type.  They  seemed  to  cherish  a  great  affection  for  the 
young  Count,  and  were  full  of  stories  about  his  sportive 
childhood ;  how  he  had  played  among  the  little  rustics, 
and  been  at  once  the  wildest  and  the  sweetest  of  them 
all ;  and  how,  in  his  very  infancy,  he  had  plunged  into 
the  deep  pools  of  the  streamlets  and  never  been  drowned, 
and  had  clambered  to  the  topmost  branches  of  tall  trees 
without  ever  breaking  his  neck.  No  such  mischance 
could  happen  to  the  sylvan  child,  because,  handling  all 
the  elements  of  nature  so  fearlessly  and  freely,  nothing 
had  either  the  power  or  the  will  to  do  him  harm. 

He  grew  up,  said  these  humble  friends,  the  playmate 
not  only  of  all  mortal  kind,  but  of  creatures  of  the  woods  ; 
although  when  Kenyon  pressed  them  for  some  particulars 
of  this  latter  mode  of  companionship,  they  could  remem¬ 
ber  little  more  than  a  few  anecdotes  of  a  pet  fox,  which 
used  to  growl  and  snap  at  everybody  save  Donatello  him- 
.  self. 

But  they  enlarged  —  and  never  were  weary  of  the 


14 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


theme  —  upon  the  blithesome  effects  of  Donatello’s  pres¬ 
ence  in  his  rosy  childhood  and  budding  youth.  Their 
hovels  had  always  glowed  like  sunshine  when  he  entered 
them  ;  so  that,  as  the  peasants  expressed  it,  their  young 
master  had  never  darkened  a  doorway  in  his  life.  He 
was  the  soul  of  vintage  festivals.  While  he  was  a  mere 
infant,  scarcely  able  to  run  alone,  it  had  been  the  custom 
to  make  him  tread  the  wine-press  with  his  tender  little 
feet,  if  it  were  only  to  crush  one  cluster  of  the  grapes. 
And  the  grape-juice  that  gushed  beneath  his  childish 
tread,  be  it  ever  so  small  in  quantity,  sufficed  to  impart 
a  pleasant  flavor  to  a  whole  cask  of  wine.  The  race  of 
Monte  Beni  —  so  these  rustic  chroniclers  assured  the 
sculptor  —  had  possessed  the  gift  from  the  oldest  of  old 
times  of  expressing  good  wine  from  ordinary  grapes,  and  a 
ravishing  liquor  from  the  choice  growth  of  their  vineyard. 

In  a  word,  as  he  listened  to  such  tales  as  these,  Ken¬ 
yon  could  have  imagined  that  the  valleys  and  hillsides 
about  him  were  a  veritable  Arcadia,  and  that  Donatello 
was  not  merely  a  sylvan  faun,  but  the  genial  wine-god  in 
his  very  person.  Making  many  allowances  for  the  poetic 
fancies  of  Italian  peasants,  he  set  it  down  for  fact,  that 
his  friend,  in  a  simple  way,  and  among  rustic  folks,  had 
been  an  exceedingly  delightful  fellow  in  his  younger  days. 

But  the  contadini  sometimes  added,  shaking  their 
lieads  and  sighing,  that  the  young  Count  was  sadly 
changed  since  he  went  to  Home.  The  village  girls  now 
missed  the  merry  smile  with  wliich  he  used  to  greet  them. 

The  sculptor  inquired  of  his  good  friend  Tomaso, 
whether  he,  too,  had  noticed  the  shadow  which  was  said 
to  have  recently  fallen  over  Donatello’s  life. 

“  Ah,  yes,  signor !  ”  answered  the  old  butler,  “  it  is 
even  so,  sinee  he  came  back  from  that  wicked  and  miser¬ 
able  City.  The  world  has  grown  either  too  evil,  or  else 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


15 


1 


too  wise  and  sad,  for  such  men  as  the  old  Counts  of 
Monte  Beni  used  to  be.  His  very  first  taste  of  it,  as  you 
see,  has  changed  and  spoilt  my  poor  young  lord.  There 
had  not  been  a  single  count  in  the  family  these  hundred 
years  and  more,  who  was  so  true  a  Monte  Beni,  of  the 
antique  stamp,  as  this  poor  signorino ;  and  now  it  brings 
the  tears  into  my  eyes  to  hear  him  sighing  over  a  cup  of 
Sunshine  !  Ah,  it  is  a  sad  world  now  !  ” 

“  Then  you  think  there  was  a  merrier  world  once  ?  ” 
asked  Kenyon. 

“  Surely,  signor,”  said  Tomaso ;  “  a  merrier  world, 
and  merrier  Counts  of  Monte  Beni  to  live  in  it !  Such 
tales  of  them  as  I  have  heard,  ndien  I  was  a  child  on  my 
grandfather’s  knee  !  The  good  old  man  remembered  a 
lord  of  Monte  Beni  —  at  least,  he  had  heard  of  such  a 
one,  though  1  will  not  make  oath  upon  the  holy  crucifix 
that  my  grandsire  lived  in  his  time  —  who  used  to  go  into 
the  woods  and  call  pretty  damsels  out  of  the  fountains, 
and  out  of  the  trunks  of  the  old  trees.  That  merry  lord 
was  known  to  dance  with  them  a  whole  long  summer 
afternoon !  When  shall  we  see  such  frolics  in  our  days  ?  ” 

“Not  soon,  I  am  afraid,”  acquiesced  the  sculptor. 
“You  are  right,  excellent  Tomaso;  the  world  is  sadder 
now !  ” 

And,  in  truth,  while  our  friend  smiled  at  these  wdld 
fables,  he  sighed  in  the  same  breath  to  think  how  the 
once  genial  earth  produces,  in  every  successive  genera¬ 
tion,  fewer  flowers  than  used  to  gladden  the  preceding 
ones.  Not  that  the  modes  and  seeming  possibilities  of 
human  enjoyment  are  rarer  in  our  refined  and  softened 
era,  —  on  the  contrary,  they  never  before  were  nearly  so 
abundant,  —  but  that  mankind  are  getting  so  far  beyond 
the  childhood  of  their  race  that  they  scorn  to  be  happy 
any  longer.  A  simple  and  joyous  character  can  find  no 


16 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


place  for  itself  among  the  sage  and  sombre  figures  that 
would  put  his  unsophisticated  cheerfulness  to  shame. 
The  entire  system  of  man’s  affairs,  as  at  present  estab¬ 
lished,  is  built  up  purposely  to  exclude  the  careless  and 
happy  soul.  The  very  children  would  upbraid  the  wretch¬ 
ed  individual  who  should  endeavor  to  take  life  and  the 
world  as  —  what  we  might  naturally  suppose  them  meant 
for  —  a  place  and  opportunity  for  enjoyment. 

It  is  the  iron  rule  in  our  day  to  require  an  object  and  a 
purpose  in  life.  It  makes  us  all  parts  of  a  complicated 
scheme  of  progress,  which  can  only  result  in  our  arrival 
at  a  colder  and  drearier  region  than  we  were  born  in.  It 
insists  upon  everybody’s  adding  somewhat  —  a  mite  per¬ 
haps,  but  earned  by  incessant  effort  —  to  an  accumulated 
pile  of  usefulness,  of  whieh  the  only  use  will  be,  to  bur¬ 
den  our  posterity  with  even  heavier  thoughts  and  more 
inordinate  labor  than  our  own.  No  life  now  wanders 
like  an  unfettered  stream  ;  there  is  a  mill-wheel  for  the 
tiniest  rivulet  to  turn.  We  go  all  wrong,  by  too  strenu¬ 
ous  a  resolution  to  go  all  right. 

Therefore  it  was  —  so,  at  least,  the  sculptor  thought, 
although  partly  suspicious  of  Donatello’s  darker  misfor¬ 
tune  — •  that  the  young  Count  found  it  impossible  nowa¬ 
days  to  be  what  his  forefathers  had  been.  He  could  not 
live  their  healthy  life  of  animal  spirits,  in  their  sympathy 
with  nature,  and  brotherhood  with  all  that  breathed 
around  them.  Nature,  in  beast,  fowl,  and  tree,  and 
earth,  flood,  and  sky,  is  what  it  was  of  old  ;  but  sin,  care, 
and  self-consciousness  have  set  the  human  portion  of  the 
world  askew ;  and  thus  the  simplest  character  is  ever  the 
soonest  to  go  astray. 

“At  any  rate,  Toraasa,”  said  Kenyon,  doing  his  best  to 
comfort  the  old  man,  “  let  ns  hope  that  your  young  lord 
will  still  enjoy  himself  at  vintage-time.  By  the  aspect  of 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


17 


the  vineyard,  I  judge  that  this  will  be  a  famous  year  for 
the  golden  wine  of  Monte  Beni.  As  long  as  your  grapes 
produce  that  admirable  liquor,  sad  as  you  think  the 
world,  neither  the  Count  nor  his  guests  will  quite  forget 
to  smile.” 

‘‘Ah,  signor,”  rejoined  the  butler  with  a  sigh,  “but  he 
scarcely  wets  his  lips  with  the  sunny  juice.” 

“  There  is  yet  another  hope,”  observed  Kenyon  ;  “  the 
young  Count  may  fall  in  love,  and  bring  home  a  fair  and 
laughing  wife  to  chase  the  gloom  out  of  yonder  old,  fres¬ 
coed  saloon.  Do  you  think  he  could  do  a  better  thing, 
my  good  Tomaso  ?  ” 

“  Maybe  not,  signor,”  said  the  sage  butler,  looking 
earnestly  at  him  ;  “  and,  maybe,  not  a  worse  !  ” 

The  sculptor  fancied  that  the  good  old  man  had  it 
partly  in  his  mind  to  make  some  remark,  or  communicate 
some  fact,  which,  on  second  thoughts,  he  resolved  to  keep 
concealed  in  his  own  breast.  He  now  took  his  departure 
cellarward,  shaking  his  white  head  and  muttering  to  him¬ 
self,  and  did  not  reappear  till  dinner-time,  when  he  favored 
Kenyon,  whom  he  had  taken  far  into  his  good  graces, 
with  a  choicer  flask  of  Sunshine  than  had  yet  blessed  his 
palate. 

To  say  the  truth,  this  golden  wine  was  no  unnecessary 
ingredient  towards  making  the  life  of  Monte  Beni  palata¬ 
ble.  It  seemed  a  pity  that  Donatello  did  not  drink  a 
little  more  of  it,  and  go  jollily  to  bed  at  least,  even  if  he 
should  awake  with  an  accession  of  darker  melancholy  the 
next  morning. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  no  lack  of  outward  means  for 
leading  an  agreeable  life  in  the  old  villa.  Wandering 
musicians  haunted  the  precincts  of  Monte  Beni,  where 
they  seemed  to  claim  a  prescriptive  right ;  they  made  the 
lawn  and  shrubbery  tuneful  with  the  sound  of  fiddle,  harp. 


18 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


and  flute,  and  now  and  then  with  the  tangled  squeaking 
of  a  bagpipe.  Improvvisatori  likewise  came  and  told  tales 
or  recited  verses  to  the  contadini  —  among  whom  Keiiyoii 
was  often  an  auditor  —  after  their  day’s  work  in  the  vine¬ 
yard.  Jugglers,  too,  obtained  permission  to  do  feats  of 
magic  in  the  hall,  where  they  set  even  the  sage  Tomaso, 
and  Stella,  Girolamo,  and  the  peasant-girls  from  the  farm¬ 
house,  all  of  a  broad  grin,  between  merriment  and  won¬ 
der.  These  good  people  got  food  and  lodging  for  their 
pleasant  pains,  and  some  of  the  small  wine  of  Tuscany, 
and  a  reasonable  handful  of  the  Grand  Duke’s  copper 
coin,  to  keep  up  the  hospitable  renown  of  Monte  Beni. 
But  very  seldom  had  they  the  young  Count  as  a  listener 
or  a  spectator. 

There  were  sometimes  dances  by  moonlight  on  the 
lawn,  but  never  since  he  came  from  Borne  did  Dona¬ 
tello’s  presence  deepen  the  blushes  of  the  pretty  conta- 
dinas,  or  his  footstep  weary  out  the  most  agile  partner 
or  competitor  as  once  it  was  sure  to  do. 

Paupers  —  for  this  kind  of  vermin  infested  the  house 
of  Monte  Beni  worse  than  any  other  spot  in  beggar- 
haunted  Italy  —  stood  beneath  all  the  windows,  making 
loud  supplication,  or  even  establishing  themselves  on  the 
marble  steps  of  the  grand  entrance.  They  ate  and  drank, 
and  filled  their  bags,  and  pocketed  the  little  money  that 
was  given  them,  and  went  forth  on  their  devious  ways, 
showering  blessings  innumerable  on  the  mansion  and  its 
lord,  and  on  the  souls  of  his  deceased  forefathers,  who  had 
always  been  just  such  simpletons  as  to  be  compassionate 
to  beggary.  But,  in  spite  of  their  favorable  prayers,  — 
by  which  Italian  philanthropists  set  great  store,  —  a  cloud 
seemed  to  hang  over  these  once  Arcadian  precincts,  and 
to  be  darkest  around  the  summit  of  the  tower  where 
Donatello  was  wont  to  sit  and  brood. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MYTHS. 

ETER  the  sculptor’s  arrival,  however,  the  young 
Count  sometimes  came  down  from  his  forlorn 
elevation,  and  rambled  with  him  among  the 
neighboring  woods  and  bills.  lie  led  his  friend  to  many 
enchanting  nooks,  with  which  he  himself  had  been  familiar 
in  his  childhood.  But  of  late,  as  he  remarked  to  Kenyon, 
a  sort  of  strangeness  had  overgrown  them,  like  clusters 
of  dark  shrubbery,  so  that  he  hardly  reeognized  the  places 
which  he  had  known  and  loved  so  well. 

To  the  sculptor’s  eye,  nevertheless,  they  were  still  rich 
with  beauty.  They  were  picturesque  in  that  sweetly  im¬ 
pressive  way,  where  wildness,  in  a  long  lapse  of  years, 
lias  crept  over  scenes  that  have  been  once  adorned  with 
the  careful  art  and  toil  of  man ;  and  when  man  could  do 
no  more  for  them,  time  and  nature  came,  and  wrought 
hand  in  hand  to  bring  them  to  a  soft  and  venerable  per¬ 
fection.  There  grew  the  fig-tree  that  had  run  wild  and 
taken  to  wife  the  vine,  which  likewise  had  gone  rampant 
out  of  all  human  control ;  so  that  the  two  wild  things 
had  tangled  and  knotted  themselves  into  a  wild  marriage- 
bond,  and  hung  their  various  progeny — the  luscious,  figs, 
the  grapes,  oozy  with  the  Southern  juice,  and  both  en- 


20 


EOMANCE  OP  MONTE  BENI. 


dowed  with  a  wild  flavor  that  added  the  flnal  charm  — 
on  the  same  bough  tog'ether. 

In  Kenyon’s  opinion,  never  was  any  other  nook  so 
lovely  as  a  certain  little  dell  which  he  and  Donatello 
visited.  It  was  hollowed  in  among  the  hills,  and  open  to 
a  glimpse  of  the  broad,  fertile  valley.  A  fountain  had  its 
birth  here,  and  fell  into  a  marble  basin,  which  was  all 
covered  with  moss  and  shaggy  with  water- weeds.  Over 
the  gush  of  the  small  stream,  with  an  urn  in  her  arms, 
stood  a  marble  nymph,  whose  nakedness  the  moss  had 
kindly  clothed  as  with  a  garment;  and  the  long  trails  and 
tresses  of  the  maidenhair  had  done  what  they  could  in 
the  poor  thing’s  behalf,  by  hanging  themselves  about  her 
waist.  In  former  days  —  it  might  be  a  remote  antiquity 
—  this  lady  of  the  fountain  had  first  received  the  infant 
tide  into  her  urn  and  poured  it  thence  into  the  marble 
basin.  But  now  the  sculptured  urn  had  a  great  crack 
from  top  to  bottom;  and  the  discontented  nymph  was 
compelled  to  see  the  basin  fill  itself  through  a  channel 
which  she  could  not  control,  although  with  water  long 
ago  consecrated  to  her. 

For  this  reason,  or  some  other,  she  looked  terribly  for¬ 
lorn  ;  and  you  might  have  fancied  that  the  whole  foun¬ 
tain  was  but  the  overflow  of  her  lonely  tears. 

“  This  was  a  place  that  I  used  greatly  to  delight  in,” 
remarked  Donatello,  sighing.  “As  a  child,  and  as  a  boy, 
I  have  been  very  happy  here.” 

“  And,  as  a  man,  I  should  ask  no  fitter  place  to  be 
hap])y  in,”  answered  Kenyon.  “  But  you,  my  friend, 
are  of  such  a  social  nature,  that  I  should  hardly  have 
thought  these  lonely  haunts  would  take  your  fancy.  It 
is  a  place  for  a  poet  to  dream  in,  and  people  it  with  the 
beings  of  his  imagination. 

“  I  am  no  poet,  that  I  know  of,”  said  Donatello,  “  but 


MYTHS. 


21 


yet,  as  I  tell  you,  I  have  been  very  happy  here,  in  the 
company  of  this  fountain  and  this  nymph.  It  is  said  that 
a  Faun,  my  oldest  forefather,  brought  home  liither  to  this 
very  spot  a  human  maiden,  whom  he  loved  and  wedded. 
This  spring  of  delicious  water  was  their  household  well.” 

“  It  is  a  most  enchanting  fable  !  ”  exclaimed  Kenyon  ; 
“  that  is,  if  it  be  not  a  fact.” 

“And  why  not  a  fact?”  said  the  simple  Donatello. 
“  There  is  likewise  another  sweet  old  story  connected 
with  this  spot.  But,  now  that  I  remember  it,  it  seems 
to  me  more  sad  than  sweet,  though  formerly  the  sorrow, 
in  which  it  closes,  did  not  so  much  impress  me.  If  I  had 
the  gift  of  tale- telling,  this  one  would  be  sure  to  interest 
you  mightily.” 

“Pray  tell  it,”  said  Kenyon;  “no  matter  wdiether  well 
or  ill.  These  wild  legends  have  often  the  most  powerful 
charm  when  least  artfully  told.” 

So  the  young  Count  narrated  a  myth  of  one  of  his  pro¬ 
genitors,  —  he  might  have  lived  a  century  ago,  or  a  thou¬ 
sand  years,  or  before  the  Christian  epoch,  for  anything 
that  Donatello  knew  to  tlie  contrary, — who  had  made 
acquaintance  with  a  fair  creature  belonging  to  this  foun¬ 
tain.  Whether  woman  or  sprite  was  a  mystery,  as  was 
all  else  about  her,  except  that  her  life  and  soul  were 
somehow  interfused  throughout  the  gushing  water.  She 
was  a  fresh,  cool,  dewy  thing,  sunny  and  shadow}^  full 
of  pleasant  little  mischiefs,  fitful  and  changeable  with  the 
whim  of  the  moment,  but  yet  as  constant  as  her  native 
stream,  which  kept  the  same  gush  and  fiow  forever,  while 
marble  crumbled  over  and  around  it.  The  fountain  wo¬ 
man  loved  the  youth,  —  a  knight,  as  Donatello  called  him, 
—  for,  according  to  the  legend,  his  race  was  akin  to  hers. 
At  least,  whether  kin  or  no,  there  had  been  friendship 
and  sympathy  of  old  betwixt  an  ancestor  of  his,  with 


22 


EOMANCE  OP  MONTE  BENI. 


furry  ears,  and  the  long-lived  lady  of  the  fountain.  And, 
after  all  those  ages,  she  was  still  as  young  as  a  May 
morning,  and  as  frolicsome  as  a  bird  upon  a  tree,  or  a 
breeze  that  makes  merry  with  the  leaves. 

She  taught  him  how  to  call  her  from  her  pebbly  source, 
and  they  spent  many  a  happy  hour  together,  more  espe¬ 
cially  in  the  fervor  of  the  summer  days.  For  often  as  he 
sat  waiting  for  her  by  the  margin  of  the  spring,  she  would 
suddenly  fall  down  around  him  in  a  shower  of  sunny  rain¬ 
drops,  with  a  rainbow  glancing  through  them,  and  forth¬ 
with  gather  herself  up  into  the  likeness  of  a  beautiful  girl, 
laughing  —  or  was  it  the  warble  of  the  rill  over  the  peb¬ 
bles  ?  —  to  see  the  youth’s  amazement. 

Thus,  kind  maiden  that  she  was,  the  hot  atmosphere 
became  deliciously  cool  and  fragrant  for  this  favored 
knight;  and,  furthermore,  when  he  knelt  down  to  drink 
out  of  the  spring,  nothing  was  more  common  than  for  a 
pair  of  rosy  lips  to  come  up  out  of  its  little  depths,  and 
touch  his  mouth  with  the  thrill  of  a  sweet,  cool,  dewy 
kiss ! 

“  It  is  a  delightful  story  for  the  hot  noon  of  your  Tus¬ 
can  summer,”  observed  the  sculptor,  at  this  point.  “But 
the  deportment  of  the  watery  lady  must  have  had  a  most 
chilling  influence  in  midwinter.  Her  lover  would  find  it, 
very  literally,  a  cold  reception  !  ” 

“I  suppose,”  said  Donatello,  rather  sulkily,  “you  are 
making  fun  of  the  story.  But  I  see  nothing  laughable 
in  the  thing  itself,  nor  in  what  you  say  about  it.” 

He  went  on  to  relate,  that  for  a  long  while  the  knight 
found  infinite  pleasure  and  comfort  in  the  friendship  of 
tlie  fountain  nymph.  In  his  merriest  hours,  she  glad¬ 
dened  him  with  her  sportive  humor.  If  ever  he  was  an¬ 
noyed  with  earthly  trouble,  she  laid  her  moist  hand  upon 
his  brow,  and  charmed  the  fret  and  fever  quite  away. 


MYTHS. 


23 


But  one  day  —  one  fatal  noontide  —  the  young  knight 
came  rushing  with  hasty  and  irregular  steps  to  the  ac¬ 
customed  fountain.  He  called  the  nymph ;  but  —  no 
doubt  because  there  was  something  unusual  and  frightful 
in  his  tone  —  she  did  not  appear,  nor  answer  him.  He 
flung  himself  down,  and  washed  his  hands  and  bathed 
his  feverish  brow  in  the  cool,  pure  water.  And  then, 
there  was  a  sound  of  woe ;  it  might  have  been  a  woman’s 
voice ;  it  might  have  been  only  the  sighing  of  the  brook 
over  the  pebbles.  The  water  shrank  away  from  the 
youth’s  hands,  and  left  his  brow  as  dry  and  feverish  as 
before.  — 

Donatello  here  came  to  a  dead  pause. 

“  Why  did  the  water  shrink  from  this  unhappy  knight  ?  ” 
inquired  the  sculptor. 

“  Because  he  had  tried  to  wash  off  a  blood-stain !  ” 
said  the  young  Count,  in  a  horror-stricken  whisper. 
“  The  guilty  man  had  polluted  the  pure  water.  The 
nymph  might  have  comforted  him  in  sorrow,  but  could 
not  cleanse  his  conscience  of  a  crime.” 

“And  did  he  never  behold  her  more ? ”  asked  Kenyon. 

“  Never  but  once,”  replied  his  friend.  “  He  never  be¬ 
held  her  blessed  face  but  once  again,  and  then  there  was 
a  blood-stain  on  the  poor  nymph’s  brow ;  it  was  the  stain 
his  guilt  had  left  in  the  fountain  where  he  tried  to  wash 
it  off.  He  mourned  for  her  his  whole  life  long,  and  em¬ 
ployed  the  best  sculptor  of  the  time  to  carve  this  statue 
of  the  nymph  from  his  description  of  her  aspect.  But, 
though  my  ancestor  would  fain  have  had  the  image  wear 
her  happiest  look,  the  artist,  unlike  yourself,  was  so  im¬ 
pressed  with  the  mournfulness  of  the  story,  that,  m  spite 
of  his  best  efforts,  he  made  her  forlorn,  and  forever  weep¬ 
ing,  as  you  see  !  ” 

Kenyon  found  a  certain  charm  in  this  simple  legend. 


24 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Whether  so  intended  or  not,  lie  understood  it  as  an 
apologue,  typifying  the  soothing  and  genial  effects  of 
an  habitual  intercourse  with  nature,  in  all  ordinary  cares 
and  griefs  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  her  mild  influences 
fall  short  in  their  effect  upon  the  ruder  passions,  and  are 
altogether  powerless  in  the  dread  fever-fit  or  deadly  chill 
of  guilt. 

“Do  you  say,”  he  asked,  “that  the  nymph’s  face  has 
never  since  been  shown  to  any  mortal  ?  Methinks,  you, 
by  your  native  qualities,  are  as  well  entitled  to  her  favor 
as  ever  your  progenitor  could  have  been.  Why  have 
you  not  summoned  her  ?  ” 

“  I  called  her  often  when  I  was  a  silly  child,”  answered 
Donatello;  and  he  added,  in  an  inward  voice,  “Thank 
Heaven,  she  did  not  come  !  ” 

“  Then  you  never  saw  her  ?  ”  said  the  sculptor. 

“Never  in  my  life  !  ”  rejoined  the  Count.  “No,  my 
dear  friend,  I  have  not  seen  the  nymph ;  although  here, 
by  her  fountain,  I  used  to  make  many  strange  acquaint¬ 
ances  ;  for,  from  my  earliest  childhood,  I  was  familiar 
with  whatever  creatures  haunt  the  woods.  You  would 
have  laughed  to  see  the  friends  I  had  among  them;  yes, 
among  the  wild,  nimble  things,  that  reckon  man  their 
deadliest  enemy  !  How  it  was  first  taught  me,  I  cannot 
tell ;  but  there  was  a  charm  —  a  voice,  a  murmur,  a  kind 
of  chant  —  by  which  I  called  the  woodland  inhabitants, 
the  furry  people,  and  the  feathered  people,  in  a  language 
that  they  seemed  to  understand.” 

“  I  have  heard  of  such  a  gift,”  responded  the  sculptor, 
gravely,  “  but  never  before  met  with  a  person  endowed 
with  it.  Pray,  try  the  charm  ;  and  lest  I  should  frighten 
your  friends  av^ay,  1  will  withdraw  into  this  thicket,  and 
merely  peep  at  them.” 

“  I  doubt,”  said  Donatello,  “  whether  they  will  remem- 


MYTHS. 


25 


ber  my  voice  now.  It  changes,  you  know,  as  the  boy 
grows  towards  manhood.” 

Nevertheless,  as  the  young  Count’s  good-nature  and 
easy  persuadability  were  among  his  best  characteristics, 
he  set  about  complying  with  Kenyon’s  request.  The 
latter,  in  his  concealment  among  the  shrubberies,  heard 
him  send  forth  a  sort  of  modulated  breath,  wild,  rude, 
yet  harmonious.  It  struck  the  auditor  as  at  once  the 
strangest  and  the  most  natural  utterance  that  had  ever 
reached  his  ears.  Any  idle  boy,  it  should  seem,  singing 
to  himself  and  setting  his  wordless  song  to  no  other  or 
more  definite  tune  than  the  play  of  his  own  pulses,  might 
produce  a  sound  almost  identical  with  this ;  and  yet,  it 
was  as  individual  as  a  murmur  of  the  breeze.  Donatello 
tried  it,  over  and  over  again,  with  many  breaks,  at  first, 
and  pauses  of  uncertainty ;  then  with  more  confidence, 
and  a  fuller  swell,  like  a  wayfarer  groping  out  of  obscu¬ 
rity  into  the  light,  and  moving  with  freer  footsteps  as  it 
brightens  around  him. 

Anon,  his  voice  appeared  to  fill  the  air,  yet  not  with 
an  obtrusive  clangor.  The  sound  was  of  a  murmurous 
character,  soft,  attractive,  persuasive,  friendly.  The 
sculptor  fancied  that  such  might  have  been  the  original 
voice  and  utterance  of  the  natural  man,  before  the  so¬ 
phistication  of  the  human  intellect  formed  what  we  now 
call  language.  In  this  broad  dialect  —  broad  as  the  sym¬ 
pathies  of  nature  —  the  human  brother  might  have  spoken 
to  his  inarticulate  brotherhood  that  prowl  the  woods,  or 
soar  upon  the  wing,  and  have  been  intelligible,  to  such 
extent  as  to  win  their  confidence. 

The  sound  had  its  pathos  too.  At  some  of  its  simple 
cadences,  the  tears  came  quietly  into  Kenyon’s  eyes. 
They  welled  up  slowly  from  his  heart,  which  was  thrill¬ 
ing  with  an  emotion  more  delightful  than  he  had  often 

VOL.  II.  2 


26 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


felt  before,  but  wliieb  be  forbore  to  analyze,  lest,  if  he 
seized  it,  it  should  at  once  perish  in  his  grasp. 

Donatello  paused  two  or  three  times,  and  seemed  to 
listen ;  then,  recommencing,  he  poured  his  spirit  and  life 
more  earnestly  into  the  strain.  And,  finally,  —  or  else 
the  sculptor’s  hope  and  imagination  deceived  him,  —  soft 
treads  were  audible  upon  the  fallen  leaves.  There  was  a 
rustling  among  the  shrubbery;  a  whir  of  wings,  more¬ 
over,  that  hovered  in  the  air.  It  may  have  been  all  an 
illusion;  but  Kenyon  fancied  that  he  could  distinguish 
the  stealthy,  cat-like  movement  of  some  small  forest  citi¬ 
zen,  and  that  he  could  even  see  its  doubtful  shadow,  if 
not  really  its  substance.  But,  all  at  once,  whatever 
might  be  the  reason,  there  ensued  a  hurried  rush  and 
scamper  of  little  feet;  and  then  the  sculptor  heard  a 
wild,  sorrowful  cry,  and  through  the  crevices  of  the 
thicket  beheld  Donatello  fling  himself  on  the  ground. 

Emerging  from  his  hiding-place,  he  saw  no  living 
thing,  save  a  brown  lizard  (it  was  of  the  tarantula  spe¬ 
cies)  rustling  away  through  the  sunshine.  To  all  present 
appearance,  this  venomous  reptile  was  the  only  creature 
that  had  responded  to  the  young  Count’s  efforts  to  renew 
his  intercourse  with  the  lower  orders  of  nature. 

‘^What  has  happened  to  you?”  exclaimed  Kenyon, 
stooping  down  over  his  friend,  and  wondering  at  the 
anguish  which  he  betrayed. 

“Death,  death!”  sobbed  Donatello.  “They  know 
it  1  ” 

He  grovelled  beside  the  fountain,  in  a  fit  of  such  pas¬ 
sionate  sobbing  and  weeping,  that  it  seemed  as  if  his  heart 
had  broken,  and  spilt  its  wild  sorrows  upon  the  ground. 
His  unrestrained  grief  and  childish  tears  made  Kenyon 
sensible  in  how  small  a  degree  the  customs  and  restraints 
of  society  had  really  acted  upon  this  young  man,  in  spite 


MYTHS. 


27 


of  the  quietude  of  his  ordinary  deportment.  In  response 
to  his  friend’s  efforts  to  console  him,  he  murmured  words 
hardly  more  articulate  than  the  strange  chant,  which  he 
had  so  recently  been  breathing  into  the  air. 

“  They  know  it !  ”  was  all  that  Kenyon  could  yet  dis¬ 
tinguish,  —  “  they  know  it !  ” 

“  Who  know  it  ?  ”  asked  the  sculptor.  “  And  what  is 
it  they  know  ?  ” 

“They  know  it!”  repeated  Donatello,  trembling. 
“  They  shun  me  !  All  nature  shrinks  from  me,  and  shud¬ 
ders  at  me  I  1  live  in  the  midst  of  a  curse,  that  hems  me 
round  with  a  circle  of  fire  !  No  innocent  thing  can  come 
near  me.” 

“  Be  comforted,  my  dear  friend,”  said  Kenyon,  kneeling 
beside  him.  “You  labor  under  some  illusion,  but  no 
curse.  As  for  this  strange,  natural  spell,  which  you  have 
been  exercising,  and  of  which  I  have  heard  before,  though 
I  never  believed  in,  nor  expected  to  witness  it,  I  am  sat¬ 
isfied  that  you  still  possess  it.  It  was  my  own  half-con¬ 
cealed  presence,  no  doubt,  and  some  involuntary  little 
movement  of  mine,  that  scared  away  your  forest  friends.” 

“  They  are  friends  of  mine  no  longer,”  answered  Don¬ 
atello. 

“We  all  of  us,  as  we  grow  older,”  rejoined  Kenyon, 
“  lose  somewhat  of  onr  proximity  to  nature.  It  is  the 
price  we  pay  for  experience.” 

“A  heavy  price,  then!”  said  Donatello,  rising  from 
the  ground.  “  But  we  will  speak  no  more  of  it.  Borget 
this  scene,  my  dear  friend.  In  your  eyes,  it  must  look 
very  absurd.  It  is  a  grief,  I  presume,  to  all  men,  to  find 
the  pleasant  privileges  and  properties  of  early  life  depart¬ 
ing  from  them.  That  grief  has  now  befallen  me.  Well; 
I  shall  waste  no  more  tears  for  such  a  cause  !  ” 

Notliing  else  made  Kenyon  so  sensible  of  a  change  in 


28 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Donatello,  as  his  newly  acquired  power  of  dealing  witn 
his  own  emotions,  and,  after  a  struggle  more  or  less  fierce, 
thrusting  them  down  into  the  prison-cells  where  he  usually 
kept  them  confined.  The  restraint  which  he  now  put 
upon  himself,  and  the  mask  of  dull  composure  which  he 
succeeded  in  clasping  over  his  still  beautiful,  and  once 
faun-like  face,  affected  the  sensitive  sculptor  more  sadly 
than  even  the  unrestrained  passion  of  the  preceding  scene. 
It  is  a  very  miserable  epoch,  when  the  evil  necessities  of 
life,  in  our  tortuous  world,  first  get  the  better  of  us  so  far 
as  to  compel  us  to  attempt  throwing  a  cloud  over  our 
transparency.  Simplicity  increases  in  value  the  longer 
we  can  keep  it,  and  the  further  we  carry  it  onward  into 
life ;  the  loss  of  a  child’s  simplicity,  in  the  inevitable 
lapse  of  years,  causes  but  a  natural  sigh  or  two,  because 
even  his  mother  feared  that  he  could  not  keep  it  always. 
But  after  a  young  man  has  brought  it  through  his  child¬ 
hood,  and  has  still  worn  it  in  his  bosom,  not  as  an  early 
dew-drop,  but  as  a  diamond  of  pure,  white  lustre,  —  it  is 
a  pity  to  lose  it,  then.  And  thus,  when  Kenyon  saw  how 
much  his  friend  had  now  to  hide,  and  how  well  he  hid  it, 
i.e  would  have  wept,  although  his  tears  w;ould  have  been 
even  idler  than  those  which  Donatello  had  just  shed. 

They  parted  on  the  lawn  before  the  house,  the  Count  to 
climb  liis  tower,  and  the  sculptor  to  read  an  antique 
edition  of  Dante,  Avhich  he  had  found  among  some  old 
volumes  of  Catholic  devotion,  in  a  seldom-visited  room. 
Tomaso  met  him  in  the  entrance-hall,  and  showed  a  desire 
to  speak. 

“  Our  poor  signorino  looks  very  sad  to-day  !  ”  he  said. 

“  Even  so,  good  Tomaso,”  replied  the  sculptor. 
“  Would  that  we  could  raise  his  spirits  a  little  !  ” 

“  There  might  be  means,  signor,”  answered  the  old  but¬ 
ler,  “  if  one  might  but  be  sure  that  they  were  the  right 


MYTHS. 


29 


ones.  We  men  are  but  rough  nurses  for  a  siek  body  or 
a  sick  spirit.” 

“  Women,  you  would  say,  my  good  friend,  are  better,” 
said  the  sculptor,  struck  by  an  intelligence  in  the  butler’s 
face.  “  That  is  possible  !  But  it  depends.” 

“  Ah  ;  we  will  wait  a  little  longer,”  said  Tomaso,  with 
the  customary  shake  of  his  head. 


CHAPTEE  III. 


THE  OWL  TOWER. 


ILL  you  not  show  me  your  tower  ?  ”  said  the 
sculptor  one  day  to  his  friend. 

“  It  is  plainly  enough  to  be  seen,  methinhs,” 
answered  the  Count,  with  a  kind  of  sulkiness  that  often 
appeared  in  him,  as  one  of  the  little  symptoms  of  inward 
trouble. 

“  Yes ;  its  exterior  is  visible  far  and  wide,”  said  Ken¬ 
yon.  ‘‘  But  such  a  gray,  moss-grown  tower  as  this,  how¬ 
ever  valuable  as  an  object  of  scenery,  will  certainly  be 
quite  as  interesting  inside  as  out.  It  cannot  be  less  than 
six  hundred  years  old  ;  the  foundations  and  lower  story 
are  much  older  than  that,  I  should  judge  ;  and  traditions 
probably  cling  to  the  walls  within  quite  as  plentifully  as 
the  gray  and  yellow  lichens  cluster  on  its  face  without.” 

“  No  doubt,”  replied  Donatello ;  but  I  know  little  of 
such  things,  and  never  could  comprehend  the  interest 
which  some  of  you  Porestieri  take  in  them.  A  year  or 
two  ago  an  English  signor  with  a  venerable  white  beard 
—  they  say  he  was  a  magician,  too  —  came  hither  from 
as  far  olf  as  Elorence,  just  to  see  my  tower.” 

“  Ah,  I  have  seen  him  at  Florence,”  observed  Kenyon. 
“  He  is  a  necromancer,  as  you  say,  and  dwells  in  an 


THE  OWL  TOWER. 


31 


old  mansion  of  the  Knights  Templars,  close  by  the  Ponte 
Vecchio,  with  a  great  many  ghostly  books,  pictures,  and 
antiquities,  to  make  the  house  gloomy,  and  one  bright¬ 
eyed  little  girl,  to  keep  it  cheerful !  ” 

“  I  know  him  only  by  his  white  beard,”  said  Donatello ; 
“but  he  could  have  told  you  a  great  deal  about  the 
tower,  and  the  sieges  which  it  has  stood,  and  the  prison¬ 
ers  who  have  been  confined  in  it.  And  he  gathered  up 
all  the  traditions  of  the  Monte  Beni  family,  and,  among 
the  rest,  the  sad  one  which  I  told  you  at  the  fountain 
the  other  day.  He  had  known  mighty  poets,  he  said,  in 
his  earlier  life ;  and  the  most  illustrious  of  them  would 
have  rejoiced  to  preserve  such  a  legend  in  immortal 
rhyme,  —  especially  if  he  could  have  had  some  of  our 
wine  of  Sunshine  to  help  out  his  inspiration !  ” 

“Any  man  might  be  a  poet,  as  welLas  Byron,  with 
such  wine  and  such  a  theme,”  rejoined  the  sculptor. 
“  But,  shall  we  climb  your  tov^er  ?  The  thunder-storm 
gathering  yonder  among  the  hills  will  be  a  spectacle 
worth  witnessing.”  j 

“  Come,  then,”  said  the  Count,  adding,  with  a  sigh, 
“  it  has  a  weary  staircase,  and  dismal  chambers,  and  it 
is  very  lonesome  at  the  summit !  ” 

“  Like  a  man’s  life,  when  he  has  climbed  to  eminence,” 
remarked  the  sculptor ;  “or,  let  us  rather  say,  with  its 
difficult  steps,  and  the  dark  prison-cells  you  speak  of, 
your  tower  resembles  the  spiritual  experience  of  many 
a  sinful  soul,  which,  nevertheless,  may  struggle  upward 
into  the  pure  air  and  light  of  Heaven  at  last !  ” 

Donatello  sighed  again,  and  led  the  way  up  into  the 
tower. 

Mounting  the  broad  staircase  that  ascended  from  the 
entrance-hall,  they  traversed  the  great  wilderness  of  a 
house,  through  some  obscure  passages,  and  came  to  a 


33 


KOMANCE  OE  MONTE  BENI. 


low,  ancient  doorway.  It  admitted  them  to  a  narrow 
turret-stair  which  zigzagged  upward,  lighted  in  its  prog¬ 
ress  by  loopholes  and  iron-barred  windows.  Reacbing 
the  top  of  the  first  flight,  the  Count  threw  open  a  door 
of  worm-eaten  oak,  and  disclosed  a  chamber  that  occu¬ 
pied  the  whole  area  of  the  tower.  It  was  most  pitiably 
forlorn  of  aspeet,  with  a  brick -paved  floor,  bare  holes 
through  the  massive  walls,  grated  with  iron,  instead  of 
windows,  and  for  furniture  an  old  stool,  whieh  increased 
the  dreariness  of  the  place  tenfold,  by  suggesting  an  idea 
of  its  having  once  been  tenanted. 

“  This  was  a  prisoner’s  cell  in  the  old  days,”  said 
Donatello  ;  “  the  white-bearded  necromancer,  of  whom  I 
told  you,  found  out  that  a  certain  famous  monk  was  con¬ 
fined  here,  about  five  hundred  years  ago.  He  was  a  very 
holy  man,  and  was  afterwards  burned  at  the  stake  in 
the  Grand-ducal  Square  at  Tirenze.  There  have  always 
been  stories,  Tomaso  says,  of  a  hooded  monk  creeping  up 
and  down  these  stairs,  or  standing  in  the  doorway  of 
this  chamber.  It  must  needs  be  the  ghost  of  the  ancient 
prisoner.  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?  ” 

“•I  can  hardly  tell,”  replied  Kenyon  ;  on  the  whole, 
I  think  not.” 

“  Neither  do  I,”  responded  the  Count ;  for,  if  spirits 
ever  come  back,  I  should  surely  have  met  one  within 
these  two  months  past.  Ghosts  never  rise  !  So  much  I 
know,  and  am  glad  to  know  it  !  ” 

Following  the  narrow  staircase  still  higher,  they  came 
to  another  room  of  similar  size  and  equally  forlorn,  but 
inhabited  by  two  personages  of  a  race  which  from  time 
immemorial  have  held  proprietorship  and  occupancy  in 
ruined  towers.  These  were  a  pair  of  owls,  who,  being 
doubtless  acquainted  with  Donatello,  showed  little  sign 
of  alarm  at  the  entrance  of  visitors.  They  gave  a  dismal 


lERON'i'Mi  'FERR  ARi  ENRB  ADEC  < 
EnSSRrrE'PHELE'EE-iGIE?- 


t  “ 


THE  OWL  TOWER. 


33 


croak  or  two,  and  hopped  aside  into  the  darkest  corner ; 
since  it  was  not  yet  their  hour  to  flap  duskily  abroad. 

“  They  do  not  desert  me,  like  my  other  feathered  ac¬ 
quaintances,”  observed  the  young  Count,  "with  a  sad  smile, 
alluding  to  the  scene  which  Kenyon  had  witnessed  at  the 
fountain-side.  “  When  I  was  a  wild,  playful  boy,  the 
owls  did  not  love  me  half  so  well.” 

He  made  no  further  pause  here,  but  led  his  friend  up 
another  flight  of  steps ;  while,  at  every  stage,  the  win¬ 
dows  and  narrow  loopholes  afforded  Kenyon  more  exten¬ 
sive  eyeshots  over  hill  and  valley,  and  allowed  him  to 
taste  the  cool  purity  of  mid-atmosphere.  At  length  they 
reached  the  topmost  chamber,  directly  beneath  the  roof 
of  the  tow'er. 

“  This  is  my  own  abode,”  said  Donatello ;  “  my  own 
owl’s  nest.” 

In  fact,  the  room  was  fitted  up  as  a  bedchamber, 
though  in  a  style  of  the  utmost  simplicity.  It  likewise 
served  as  an  oratory  ;  there  being  a  crucifix  in  one  cor¬ 
ner  and  a  multitude  of  holy  emblems,  such  as  Catholics 
judge  it  necessary  to  help  their  devotion  withal.  Sev¬ 
eral  ugly  little  prints,  representing  the  sufferings  of  the 
Saviour,  and  the  martyrdoms  of  saints,  hung  on  the 
wall;  and,  behind  the  crucifix,  there  was  a  good  cojiy 
of  Titian’s  Magdalen  of  the  Pitti  Palace,  clad  only  in 
the  flow  of  her  golden  ringlets.  She  had  a  confident 
look  (but  it  was  Titian’s  fault,  not  the  penitent  wo¬ 
man’s),  as  if  expecting  to  win  heaven  by  the  free  display 
of  her  earthly  charms.  Inside  of  a  glass  case,  appeared 
an  image  of  the  sacred  Bambino,  in  the  guise  of  a  little 
waxen  boy,  very  prettily  made,  reclining  among  flowers, 
like  a  Cupid,  and  holding  up  a  heart  that  resembled  a 
bit  of  red  sealing-wax.  A  small  vase  of  precious  marble 
was  full  of  holy  water. 

2-^ 


c 


34 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Beneath  the  erueifix,  on  a  table,  lay  a  human  skull, 
which  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  dug  up  out  of  some 
old  grave.  But,  examining  it  more  closely,  Kenyon  saw 
that  it  was  carved  in  gray  alabaster,  most  skilfully  done 
to  the  death,  with  accurate  imitation  of  the  teeth,  the 
sutures,  the  empty  eye-caverns,  and  the  fragile  little  bones 
of  the  nose.  This  hideous  emblem  rested  on  a  cushion 
of  white  marble,  so  nicely  wrought  that  you  seemed  to 
see  the  impression  of  the  heavy  skull  in  a  silken  and 
downy  substance. 

Donatello  dipped  his  fingers  into  the  holy-water  vase, 
and  crossed  himself.  After  doing  so  he  trembled. 

“  I  have  no  right  to  make  the  sacred  symbol  on  a  sinful 
breast !  ”  he  said. 

“  On  what  mortal  breast  can  it  be  made  then  ?  ”  asked 
the  sculptor.  “  Is  there  one  that  hides  no  sin  ?  ” 

“  But  these  blessed  emblems  make  you  smile,  I  fear,” 
resumed  the  Count,  looking  askance  at  his  friend.  “  You 
heretics,  I  know,  attempt  to  pray  without  even  a  crucifix 
to  kneel  at.” 

“  I,  at  least,  whom  you  call  a  heretic,  reverence  that 
holy  symbol,”  answered  Kenyon.  “  What  I  am  most  in¬ 
clined  to  murmur  at,  is  this  death’s-head.  I  could  laugh, 
moreover,  in  its  ugly  face  !  It  is  absurdly  monstrous,  my 
dear  friend,  thus  to  fling  the  dead-weight  of  our  mortality 
upon  our  immortal  hopes.  While  we  live  on  earth,  ’t  is 
true,  we  must  needs  carry  our  skeletons  about  with  us ; 
but,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  do  not  let  us  burden  our  spirits 
with  them,  in  our  feeble  efforts  to  soar  upward  !  Believe 
me,  it  will  change  the  whole  aspect  of  death,  if  you  can 
once  disconnect  it,  in  your  idea,  with  that  corruption 
from  which  it  disengages  our  higher  part.” 

“  1  do  not  well  understand  you,”  said  Donatello ;  and 
he  took  up  the  alabaster  skull,  shuddering,  and  evidently 


THE  OWL  TOWER. 


35 


feeling  it  a  kind  of  penance  to  toucli  it.  I  only  know 
tliat  this  skull  has  been  in  my  family  for  centuries.  Old 
Tomaso  has  a  story  that  it  was  copied  by  a  famous  sculp¬ 
tor  from  the  skull  of  that  same  unhappy  knight  who  loved 
the  fountain-lady,  and  lost  her  by  a  blood-stain.  He 
lived  and  died  with  a  deep  sense  of  sin  upon  him,  and,  on 
his  death-bed,  he  ordained  that  this  token  of  him  should 
go  down  to  his  posterity.  And  my  forefathers,  being  a 
cheerful  race  of  men  in  their  natural  disposition,  found  it 
needful  to  have  the  skull  often  before  their  eyes,  because 
they  dearly  loved  life  and  its  enjoyments,  and  hated  the 
very  thought  of  death.” 

“  I  am  afraid,”  said  Kenyon,  “  they  liked  it  none  the 
better,  for  seeing  its  face  under  this  abominable  mask.” 

Without  further  discussion,  the  Count  led  the  way  up 
one  more  flight  of  stairs,  at  the  end  of  which  they  emerged 
upon  the  summit  of  the  tower.  The  sculptor  felt  as  if 
his  being  were  suddenly  magnifled  a  hundred-fold;  so 
wide  was  the  Umbrian  valley  that  suddenly  opened  be¬ 
fore  him,  set  in  its  grand  framework  of  nearer  and  more 
distant  hills.  It  seemed  as  if  all  Italy  lay  under  his  eyes 
in  that  one  picture.  Tor  there  was  the  broad,  sunny 
smile  of  God,  which  we  fancy  to  be  spread  over  that  fa¬ 
vored  land  more  abundantly  than  on  other  regions,  and, 
beneath  it,  glowed  a  most  rich  and  varied  fertility.  The 
trim  vineyards  were  there,  and  the  flg-trees,  and  the  mul¬ 
berries,  and  the  smoky-hued  tracts  of  the  olive-orchards  ; 
there,  too,  were  fields  of  every  kind  of  grain,  among 
which  waved  the  Indian  corn,  putting  Kenyon  in  mind 
of  the  fondly  remembered  acres  of  his  father’s  homestead. 
White  villas,  gray  convents,  church-spires,  villages, 
towns,  each  with  its  battlemented  walls  and  towered 
gateway,  were  scattered  upon  this  spacious  map  ;  a  river 
gleamed  across  it ;  and  lakes  opened  their  blue  eyes  in 


36 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


its  face,  reflecting  heaven,  lest  mortals  slionld  forget  that 
better  land,  when  they  beheld  the  earth  so  beautiful. 

What  made  the  valley  look  still  wider,  was  the  two  or 
three  varieties  of  weather  that  were  visible  on  its  surface, 
all  at  the  same  instant  of  time.  Here  lay  the  quiet  sun¬ 
shine;  there  fell  the  great  black  patches  of  ominous 
shadow  from  the  clouds ;  and  behind  them,  like  a  giant 
of  league-long  strides,  came  hurrjdng  the  thunder-storm, 
which  had  already  swept  midway  across  the  plain.  In 
the  rear  of  the  approaching  tempest,  brightened  forth 
again  the  sunny  splendor,  which  its  progress  had  dark¬ 
ened  with  so  terrible  a  frown. 

All  round  this  majestic  landscape,  the  bald-peaked  or 
forest-crowned  mountains  descended  boldly  upon  the 
plain.  On  many  of  their  spurs  and  midway  declivities, 
and  even  on  their  summits,  stood  cities,  some  of  them 
famous  of  old ;  for  these  had  been  the  seats  and  nurse¬ 
ries  of  early  art,  where  the  flower  of  beauty  sprang  out 
of  a  rocky  soil,  and  in  a  high,  keen  atmosphere,  when 
the  richest  and  most  sheltered  gardens  failed  to  nour¬ 
ish  it. 

“  Thank  God  for  letting  me  again  behold  this  scene  !  ” 
said  the  sculptor,  a  devout  man  in  his  way,  reverently 
taking  off  his  hat.  “  I  have  viewed  it  from  many  points, 
and  never  without  as  full  a  sensation  of  gratitude  as  my 
heart  seems  capable  of  feeling.  How  it  strengthens  the 
poor  human  spirit  in  its  reliance  on  His  providence,  to 
ascend  but  this  little  way  above  the  common  level,  and 
so  attain  a  somewhat  wider  glimpse  of  His  dealings 
with  mankind  !  He  doeth  all  things  right !  His  will  be 
done ! ” 

“  You  discern  something  that  is  hidden  from  me,”  ob¬ 
served  Donatello,  gloomily,  yet  striving  with  unwonted 
grasp  to  catch  the  analogies  which  so  cheered  his  friend. 


THE  OWL  TOWER. 


37 


“  I  see  suiisliine  on  one  spot,  and  cloud  in  another,  and 
no  reason  for  it  in  either  ease.  The  sun  on  you ;  the 
cloud  on  me  !  What  comfort  can  I  draw  from  this  ?  ” 

“Nay;  I  cannot  preach,”  said  Kenyon,  “with  a  page 
of  heaven  and  a  page  of  earth  spread  wide  open  before 
us  !  Only  begin  to  read  it  and  you  will  find  it  interpret¬ 
ing  itself  without  the  aid  of  words.  It  is  a  great  mistake 
to  try  to  put  our  best  thoughts  into  human  language. 
When  we  ascend  into  the  higher  regions  of  emotion  and 
spiritual  enjoyment,  they  are  only  expressible  by  such 
grand  hieroglyphics  as  these  around  us.” 

They  stood  awhile,  contemplating  the  scene  ;  but,  as 
inevitably  happens  after  a  spiritual  flight,  it  was  not  long 
before  the  sculptor  felt  his  wings  flagging  in  the  rarity  of 
the  upper  atmosphere.  He  was  glad  to  let  himself  quietly 
downward  out  of  the  mid-sky,  as  it  were,  and  alight  on 
tlie  solid  platform  of  the  battlemented  tower.  He  looked 
about  him,  and  beheld  growing  out  of  the  stone  pave¬ 
ment,  which  formed  the  roof,  a  little  shrub,  with  green 
and  glossy  leaves.  It  was  the  only  green  thing  there ; 
and  Heaven  knows  how  its  seeds  had  ever  been  planted, 
at  that  airy  height,  or  how  it  had  found  nourishment  for 
its  small  life,  in  the  chinks  of  the  stones ;  for  it  had  no 
earth,  and  nothing  more  like  soil  than  the  crumbling 
mortar,  which  had  been  crammed  into  the  crevices  in  a 
long-past  age. 

Yet  the  plant  seemed  fond  of  its  native  site  ;  and  Dona¬ 
tello  said  it  had  always  grown  there,  from  his  earliest 
remembrance,  and  never,  he  believed,  any  smaller  or  any 
larger  than  they  saw  it  now. 

“I  wonder  if  the  shrub  teaches  you  any  good  lesson,” 
said  he,  observing  tlie  interest  with  which  Kenyon  exam¬ 
ined  it.  “If  the  wide  valley  has  a  great  meaning,  the 
plant  ought  to  have  at  least  a  little  one ;  and  it  has  been 


38 


HOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


growing  on  our  tower  long  enougli  to  have  learned  how 
to  speak  it.” 

“  0,  certainly  !  ”  answered  the  sculptor ;  “  the  shrub 
has  its  moral,  or  it  would  have  perished  long  ago.  And, 
no  doubt,  it  is  for  your  use  and  edification,  since  you 
have  had  it  before  your  eyes  all  your  lifetime,  and  now 
are  moved  to  ask  what  may  be  its  lesson.” 

“  It  teaches  me  nothing,”  said  the  simple  Donatello, 
stooping  over  the  plant,  and  perplexing  liimself  with  a 
minute  scrutiny.  “  But  here  was  a  worm  that  would 
have  killed  it ;  an  ugly  creature,  \\Inch  I  will  fling  over 
the  battlements.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 


ON  THE  BATTLEMENTS. 

'HE  sculptor  now  looked  through  an  embrasure, 
and  threw  down  a  bit  of  lime,  watching  its  fall, 
till  it  struck  upon  a  stone  bench  at  the  rocky 
foundation  of  the  tower,  and  flew  into  many  fragments. 

“Pray  pardon  me  for  helping  Time  to  crumble  away 
your  ancestral  walls,”  said  he.  “But  I  am  one  of  those 
})ersons  who  have  a  natural  tendency  to  climb  heights, 
and  to  stand  on  the  verge  of  them,  measuring  the  depth 
below.  If  I  were  to  do  just  as  I  like,  at  this  moment,  I 
should  fling  myself  down  after  that  bit  of  lime.  It  is  a 
very  singular  temptation,  and  all  but  irresistible;  partly, 
I  believe,  because  it  might  be  so  easily  done,  and  partly 
beeause  such  momentous  consequences  would  ensue, 
without  my  being  compelled  to  wait  a  moment  for  them. 
Have  you  never  felt  this  strange  impulse  of  an  evil  spirit 
at  your  back,  shoving  you  towards  a  precipice  ?  ” 

“  Ah,  no  !  ”  cried  Donatello,  shrinking  from  the  battle- 
meiited  wall  with  a  face  of  horror.  “  I  cling  to  life  in  a 
way  which  you  cannot  conceive ;  it  has  been  so  rich,  so 
w^arm,  so  sunny! — and  beyond  its  verge,  nothing  but 
the  chilly  dark  1  And  then  a  fall  from  a  precipice  is 
such  an  awful  death  I  ” 


40 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  Nay ;  if  it  be  a  great  height,”  said  Kenyon,  “  a  man 
would  leave  his  life  in  the  air,  and  never  feel  the  hard 
shock  at  the  bottom.” 

‘‘  That  is  not  the  way  with  this  kind  of  death  !  ”  ex¬ 
claimed  Donatello,  in  a  low,  horror-stricken  voice,  which 
grew  higher  and  more  full  of  emotion  as  he  proceeded. 
“  Imagine  a  fellow-creature,  — breathing,  now,  and  look¬ 
ing  you  in  the  face,  —  and  now  tumbling  down,  down, 
down,  with  a  long  shriek  wavering  after  him,  all  the  way  ! 
He  does  not  leave  his  life  in  the  air !  No  ;  but  it  keeps 
in  him  till  he  thumps  against  the  stones,  a  horribly  long 
Avhile ;  then,  he  lies  there  frightfully  quiet,  a  dead  heap 
of  bruised  flesh  and  broken  bones !  A  quiver  runs 
through  the  crushed  mass ;  and  no  more  movement  after 
that!  No;  not  if  you  would  give  your  soul  to  make 
him  stir  a  finger !  Ah,  terrible  !  Yes,  yes ;  I  would  fain 
fling  myself  down  for  the  very  dread  of  it,  that  I  might 
endure  it  once  for  all,  and  dream  of  it  no  more !  ” 

“  How  forcibly,  how  frightfully  you  conceive  this !  ” 
said  the  sculptor,  aghast  at  the  ])assionate  horror  which 
was  betrayed  in  the  Count’s  words,  and  still  more  in  his 
wild  gestures  and  ghastly  look.  “Nay,  if  the  height  of 
your  tower  affects  your  imagination  thus,  you  do  wrong 
to  trust  yourself  here  in  solitude,  and  in  the  night-time, 
and  at  all  unguarded  hours.  You  are  not  safe  in  your 
chamber.  It  is  but  a  step  or  two  ;  and  what  if  a  vivid 
dream  should  lead  you  up  hither,  at  midnight,  and  act 
itself  out  as  a  reality !  ” 

Donatello  had  hidden  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  was 
leaning  against  the  parapet. 

“No  fear  of  that!”  said  he.  “Whatever  the  dream 
may  be,  I  am  too  genuine  a  coward  to  act  out  my  own 
death  in  it.” 

The  paroxysm  passed  away,  and  the  two  friends  con- 


ON  THE  BATTLEMENTS. 


41 


iinued  their  desultory  talk,  very  much  as  if  no  such  in¬ 
terruption  had  occurred.  Nevertheless,  it  affected  the 
sculptor  with  infinite  pity  to  see  this  young  man,  who 
had  been  born  to  gladness  as  an  assured  heritage,  now 
involved  in  a  misty  bewilderment  of  grievous  thoughts, 
amid  which  he  seemed  to  go  staggering  blindfold.  Ken¬ 
yon,  not  without  an  unshaped  suspicion  of  the  definite 
fact,  knew  that  his  condition  must  have  resulted  from 
the  weight  and  gloom  of  life,  now  first,  through  the 
agency  of  a  secret  trouble,  making  themselves  felt  on  a 
character  that  had  heretofore  breathed  only  an  atmos¬ 
phere  of  joy.  The  effect  of  this  hard  lesson,  upon  Dona¬ 
tello’s  intellect  and  disposition,  was  very  striking.  It  was 
perceptible  that  he  had  already  had  glimpses  of  strange 
and  subtle  matters  in  those  dark  caverns,  into  which  all 
men  must  descend,  if  they  would  know  anything  beneath 
the  surface  and  illusive  pleasures  of  existence.  And 
when  they  emerge,  though  dazzled  and  blinded  by  the 
first  glare  of  daylight,  they  take  truer  and  sadder  views 
of  life  forever  afterwards. 

From  some  mysterious  source,  as  the  sculptor  felt  as¬ 
sured,  a  soul  had  been  inspired  into  the  young  Count’s 
simplicity,  since  their  intercourse  in  Rome.  He  now 
showed  a  far  deeper  sense,  and  an  intelligence  that  began 
to  deal  with  high  subjects,  though  in  a  feeble  and  child¬ 
ish  way.  He  evinced,  too,  a  more  definite  and  nobler 
individuality,  but  developed  out  of  grief  and  pain,  and 
fearfully  conscious  of  the  pangs  that  had  given  it  birth. 
Every  human  life,  if  it  ascends  to  truth  or  delves  down 
to  reality,  must  undergo  a  similar  change  ;  but  some¬ 
times,  perhaps,  the  instruction  comes  without  the  sor¬ 
row  ;  and  oftener  the  sorrow  teaches  no  lesson  that 
abides  with  us.  In  Donatello’s  case,  it  was  pitiful,  and 
almost  ludicrous,  to  observe  tlie  confused  struggle  that 


42 


EOMANCE  OF  MOXTE  BEE^I. 


he  made ;  how  completely  he  was  taken  by  surprise  ; 
how  ill-prepared  he  stood,  on  this  old  battle-field  of  the 
world,  to  fight  with  such  an  inevitable  foe  as  mortal  ca¬ 
lamity,  and  sin  for  its  stronger  ally. 

“  And  yet,”  thought  Kenyon,  “  the  poor  fellow  bears 
himself  like  a  hero,  too  !  If  he  would  only  tell  me  his 
trouble,  or  give  me  an  opening  to  speak  frankly  about  it, 
I  might  help  him  ;  but  he  finds  it  too  horrible  to  be  ut¬ 
tered,  and  fancies  himself  the  only  mortal  that  ever  felt 
the  anguish  of  remorse.  Yes  ;  he  believes  that  nobody 
ever  endured  his  agony  before  ;  so  that  —  sharp  enough 
in  itself  —  it  has  all  the  additional  zest  of  a  torture  just 
invented  to  plague  him  individually.” 

The  sculptor  endeavored  to  dismiss  the  painful  subject 
from  his  mind ;  and,  leaning  against  the  battlements,  he 
turned  his  face  southward  and  westward,  and  gazed 
across  the  breadth  of  the  valley.  His  thoughts  flew  far 
beyond  even  those  wide  boundaries,  taking  an  air-line 
from  Donatello’s  tower  to  another  turret  that  ascended 
into  the  sky  of  the  summer  afternoon,  invisibly  to  him, 
above  the  roofs  of  distant  Rome.  Then  rose  tumultu¬ 
ously  into  his  consciousness  that  strong  love  for  Hilda, 
which  it  was  his  habit  to  confine  in  one  of  the  heart’s  m- 
ner  chambers,  because  he  had  found  no  encouragement 
to  bring  it  forward.  But  now,  he  felt  a  strange  pull  at 
his  heartstrings.  It  could  not  have  been  more  percepti¬ 
ble,  if  all  the  way  between  these  battlements  and  Hilda’s 
dove-cote,  had  stretched  an  exquisitely  sensitive  cord, 
Mdiich,  at  the  hither  end,  was  knotted  with  his  aforesaid 
heartstrings,  and,  at  the  remoter  one,  was  grasped  by  a 
gentle  hand.  His  breath  grew  tremulous.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  breast ;  so  distinctly  did  he  seem  to  feel  that 
cord  drawn  once,  and  again,  and  again,  as  if — though 
still  it  was  bashfully  intimated  —  there  were  an  importu- 


ON  THE  BATTLEMENTS. 


43 


nate  demand  for  his  presence.  0,  for  the  white  wings 
of  Hilda’s  doves,  that  he  might  have  flown  thither,  and 
alighted  at  the  virgin’s  shrine  ! 

But  lovers,  and  Kenyon  knew  it  well,  project  so  life¬ 
like  a  copy  of  their  mistresses  out  of  their  own  imagi¬ 
nations,  that  it  can  pull  at  the  heartstrings  almost  as 
perceptibly  as  the  genuine  original.  No  airy  intimations 
are  to  be  trusted ;  no  evidences  of  responsive  affection 
less  positive  than  whispered  and  broken  words,  or  tender 
pressures  of  the  hand,  allowed  and  half  returned ;  or 
glances,  that  distil  many  passionate  avowals  into  one 
gleam  of  richly  colored  light.  Even  these  should  be 
weighed  rigorously,  at  the  instant;  for,  in  another  in¬ 
stant,  the  imagination  seizes  on  them  as  its  pi*operty,  and 
stamps  them  with  its  own  arbitrary  value.  But  Hilda's 
maidenly  reserve  had  given  her  lover  no  such  tokens,  to 
be  interpreted  either  by  his  hopes  or  fears. 

“  Yonder,  over  mountain  and  valley,  lies  Home,”  said 
the  sculptor ;  “  shall  you  return  thither  in  the  autumn  ?  ” 

“Never!  I  hate  Rome,”  answered  Donatello;  “and 
have  good  cause.” 

“  And  yet  it  was  a  pleasant  winter  that  we  spent  there,” 
observed  Kenyon,  “  and  with  pleasant  friends  about  us. 
You  would  meet  them  again  there,  —  all  of  them.” 

“All?”  asked  Donatello. 

“  All,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,”  said  the  sculptor ; 
“  but  you  need  not  go  to  Rome  to  seek  them.  If  there 
were  one  of  those  friends  whose  lifetime  was  twisted 
with  your  own,  I  am  enough  of  a  fatalist  to  feel  assured 
that  you  will  meet  that  one  again,  wander  whither  you 
may.  Neither  can  we  escape  the  companions  whom 
Providence  assigns  for  us,  by  climbing  an  old  tower  like 
this.” 

“  Yet  the  stairs  are  steep  and  dark,”  rejoined  the 


44 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Count ;  none  "but  yourself  would  seek  me  here,  or  find 
me,  if  they  sought.” 

As  Donatello  did  not  take  advantage  of  this  opening 
which  his  friend  had  kindly  afforded  him,  to  pour  out  liis 
hidden  troubles,  the  latter  again  threw  aside  the  subject, 
and  returned  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  scene  before  him. 
The  thunder-storm,  which  he  had  beheld  striding  across 
the  valley,  had  passed  to  the  left  of  Monte  Beni,  and  was 
continuing  its  march  towards  the  hills  that  formed  the 
boundary  on  the  eastward.  Above  the  whole  valley,  in¬ 
deed,  the  sky  was  heavy  with  tumbling  vapors,  inter¬ 
spersed  with  which  were  tracts  of  blue,  vividly  brightened 
by  the  sun ;  but,  in  the  east,  where  the  tempest  Avas  yet 
trailing  its  ragged  skirts,  lay  a  dusky  region  of  cloud  and 
sullen  mist,  in  Avhich  some  of  the  hills  appeared  of  a  dark- 
purple  hue.  Others  became  so  indistinct,  that  the  spec¬ 
tator  could  not  tell  rocky  height  from  impalpable  cloud. 
Bar  into  this  misty  cloud-region,  however,  — Avithin  the 
domain  of  chaos,  as  it  were,  —  hill-tops  were  seen  bright¬ 
ening  in  the  sunshine  ;  they  looked  like  fragments  of  the 
world,  broken  adrift  and  based  on  nothingness,  or  like 
portions  of  a  sphere  destined  to  exist,  but  not  yet  finally 
compacted. 

The  sculptor,  habitually  drawing  many  of  the  images 
and  illustrations  of  his  thoughts  from  the  plastic  art,  fan¬ 
cied  that  the  scene  represented  the  process  of  the  Creator, 
Avlien  he  held  the  new,  imperfect  earth  in  his  hand,  and 
modelled  it. 

“  What  a  magic  is  in  mist  and  vapor  among  the  moun¬ 
tains  !  ”  lie  exclaimed.  “  With  their  help,  one  single  scene 
becomes  a  thousand.  The  cloud-scenery  gives  such  va¬ 
riety  to  a  hilly  landscape  that  it  would  be  worth  while  to 
journalize  its  aspect  from  hour  to  hour.  A  cloud,  how¬ 
ever,  —as  I  have  myself  experienced,.  —  is  apt  to  grow 


ON  THE  BATTLEMENTS. 


45 


solid  and  as  heavy  as  a  stone  the  instant  that  yon  take  in 
hand  to  describe  it.  But,  in  my  own  heart,  I  have  found 
great  use  in  clouds.  Such  silvery  ones  as  those  to  the 
northward,  for  example,  have  often  suggested  sculptur-^ 
esque  groups,  figures,  and  attitudes  ;  they  are  especially 
rich  in  attitudes  of  living  repose,  wdiich  a  sculptor  only 
hits  upon  by  the  rarest  good  fortune.  When  I  go  back 
to  my  dear  native  land,  the  clouds  along  the  horizon  will 
be  my  only  gallery  of  art !  ” 

“  I  can  see  cloud-shapes  too,”  said  Donatello  ;  yonder 
is  one  that  shifts  strangely  ;  it  has  been  like  people  whom 
I  knew.  And  now,  if  I  watch  it  a  little  longer,  it  will 
take  the  figure  of  a  monk  reclining,  with  his  cowl  about 
liis  head  and  drawn  partly  over  his  face,  and  —  well !  did 
I  not  tell  you  so  ?  ” 

“I  think,”  remarked  Kenyon,  “we  can  hardly  be  gaz¬ 
ing  at  the  same  cloud.  What  1  behold  is  a  reclining 
figure,  to  be  sure,  but  feminine,  and  with  a  despondent 
air,  wonderfully  well  expressed  in  the  wavering  outline 
from  head  to  foot.  It  moves  my  very  heart  by  something 
indefinable  that  it  suggests.” 

“  I  see  the  figure,  and  almost  the  face,”  said  the  Count ; 
adding,  in  a  lower  voice,  “  It  is  Miriam’s  !  ” 

“No,  not  Miriam’s,”  answered  the  sculptor. 

While  the  two  gazers  thus  found  their  own  reminis¬ 
cences  and  presentiments  floating  among  the  clouds,  the 
day  drew  to  its  close,  and  now  showed  them  the  fair 
spectacle  of  an  Italian  sunset.  The  sky  was  soft  and 
bright,  but  not  so  gorgeous  as  Kenyon  had  seen  it,  a 
thousand  times,  in  America ;  for  there  the  western  sky  is 
wont  to  be  set  aflame  with  breadths  and  depths  of  color 
with  which  poets  seek  in  vain  to  dye  their  verses,  and 
which  painters  never  dare  to  copy.  As  beheld  from  the 
tow'er  of  Monte  Beni,  the  scene  was  tenderly  magnifi- 


46  ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 

cent,  with  mild  gradations  of  line,  and  a  lavish  outpouring 
of  gold,  but  rather  such  gold  as  we  see  on  the  leaf  of  a 
bright  flower  than  the  burnished  glow  of  metal  from  the 
mine.  Or,  if  metallic,  it  looked  airy  and  unsubstantial, 
like  the  glorified  dreams  of  an  alchemist.  And  speedily  — 
more  speedily  than  in  our  own  elime  —  came  the  twilight, 
and,  brightening  through  its  gray  transparency,  the  stars. 

A  swarm  of  minute  insects  that  had  been  liovering  all 
day  round  the  battlements  were  now  swept  away  by  the 
freshness  of  a  rising  breeze.  The  two  owls  in  the  cham¬ 
ber  beneath  Donatello’s  uttered  their  soft  melancholy 
cry,  —  which,  with  national  avoidance  of  harsh  sounds, 
Italian  owls  substitute  for  the  hoot  of  their  kindred  in 
other  countries,  —  and  flew  darkling  forth  among  the 
shrubbery.  A  convent-bell  rang  out,  near  at  hand,  and 
was  not  only  eehoed  among  the  hills,  but  answered  by 
another  bell,  and  still  another,  whieh  doubtless  had  far¬ 
ther  and  farther  responses,  at  various  distances  along  the 
valley  ;  for,  like  the  English  drum-beat  around  the  globe, 
there  is  a  chain  of  convent-bells  from  end  to  end,  and 
cross-wise,  and  in  all  possible  directions  over  priest-rid¬ 
den  Italy. 

“  Come,”  said  the  seulptor,  “  the  evening  air  grows 
cool.  It  is  time  to  deseend.” 

‘‘  Time  for  you,  my  friend,”  replied  the  Count ;  and  he 
hesitated  a  little  before  adding,  “  I  must  keep  a  vigil  here 
for  some  hours  longer.  It  is  my  frequent  custom  to  keep 
vigils ;  and  sometimes  the  thought  occurs  to  me  whether 
it  were  not  better  to  keep  them  in  yonder  convent,  the 
bell  of  which  just  now  seemed  to  summon  me.  Should 
I  do  wisely,  do  you  think,  to  exchange  this  old  tower  for 
a  cell  F  ” 

“  What !  Turn  monk  ?  ”  exclaimed  his  friend.  “  A 
horrible  idea !  ” 


■  11  i  A 1 


\  ;  i* 

ti  :  '  '  1 


eKcoi-D'  t 

y  f  I  i  V'T'l'*  l''l- 

RA.!<0i0^C  BALLC  l  >!  ^  i 

ifr  PAT  i  Mi  M-  i 

*0l&TM*l>*i2.i0NE 

NliiM-APREMIUI, 

MIC  lOKi  \  xM 

ioNf  f  V 

tOVCERTO 

!.A?> 

i  i£TT 


ON  THE  BATTLEMENTS.  47 

“  True,”  said  Donatello,  sighing.  “  Therefore,  if  at  all, 
I  purpose  doing  it.” 

“  Then  think  of  it  no  more,  for  Heaven’s  sake !  ”  cried 
the  sculptor.  “  There  are  a  thousand  better  and  more 
poignant  methods  of  being  miserable  than  that,  if  to  be 
miserable  is  what  you  wish.  Nay;  I  question  whether 
a  nmnk  keeps  himself  up  to  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
height  which  misery  implies.  A  monk  —  I  judge  from 
their  sensual  physiognomies,  which  meet  me  at  every 
turn  —  is  inevitably  a  beast !  Their  souls,  if  they  have 
any  to  begin  with,  perish  out  of  them,  before  their  slug¬ 
gish,  swinish  existence  is  half  done.  Better,  a  million 
times,  to  stand  star-gazing  on  these  airy  battlements,  than 
to  smother  your  new  germ  of  a  higher  life  in  a  monkish 
cell !  ” 

“You  make  me  tremble,”  said  Donatello,  “by  your 
bold  aspersion  of  men  who  have  devoted  themselves  to 
God’s  service !  ” 

“  They  serve  neither  God  nor  man,  and  themselves 
least  of  all,  though  their  motives  be  utterly  selfish,”  re¬ 
plied  Kenyon.  “Avoid  the  convent,  my  dear  friend,  as 
you  would  shun  the  death  of  the  soul !  But,  for  my  own 
part,  if  I  had  an  insupportable  burden,  —  if,  for  any 
cause,  I  were  bent  upon  sacrificing  every  earthly  hope 
as  a  peace-offering  towards  Heaven,  —  I  would  make 
the  Mude  world  my  cell,  and  good  deeds  to  mankind  my 
prayer.  Many  penitent  men  have  done  this,  and  found 
peace  in  it.” 

“  Ah,  bnt  you  are  a  heretic  !  ”  said  the  Count. 

Yet  his  face  brightened  beneath  the  stars ;  and,  look¬ 
ing  at  it  through  the  twilight,  the  sculptor’s  remembrance 
went  back  to  that  scene  in  the  Capitol,  where,  both  in 
features  and  expression,  Donatello  had  seemed  identical 
with  the  Baun.  And  still  there  was  a  resemblance  ;  for 


48 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


now,  when  first  the  idea  was  suggested  of  living  for  the 
welfare  of  his  fellow-creatures,  the  original  beauty,  which 
sorrow  had  partly  effaced,  came  back  elevated  and  spir¬ 
itualized.  In  the  black  depths,  the  Eauii  had  found 
a  soul,  and  was  struggling  Avith  it  towards  the  light  of 
heaven. 

The  illumination,  it  is  true,  soon  faded  out  of  Donatel¬ 
lo’s  face.  Tlie  idea  of  life-long  and  unselfish  effort  was 
too  high  to  be  received  by  him  with  more  than  a  momen¬ 
tary  comprehension.  An  Italian,  indeed,  seldom  dreams 
of  being  philanthropic,  except  in  bestowing  alms  among 
the  paupers,  who  appeal  to  his  beneficence  at  every  step ; 
nor  does  it  occur  to  him  that  there  are  fitter  modes  of 
propitiating  Heaven  than  by  penances,  pilgrimages,  and 
offerings  at  shrines.  Perhaps,  too,  their  system  has  its 
sliare  of  moral  advantages ;  they,  at  all  events,  cannot 
well  pride  themselves,  as  our  own  more  energetic  benevo¬ 
lence  is  apt  to  do,  upon  sharing  in  the  counsels  of  Provi¬ 
dence  and  kindly  helping  out  its  otherwise  impracticable 
designs. 

And  now  the  broad  valley  twinkled  with  lights,  that 
glimmered  through  its  duskiness,  like  the  fire-flies  in  the 
garden  of  a  Plorentine  palace.  A  gleam  of  lightning 
from  the  rear  of  the  tempest  showed  the  circumference 
of  hills,  and  the  great  space  between,  as  the  last  cannon- 
flash  of  a  retreating  army  reddens  across  the  field  where 
it  has  fought.  The  sculptor  was  on  the  point  of  descend¬ 
ing  the  turret-stair,  when,  somewhere  in  the  darkness 
that  lay  beneath  them,  a  woman’s  voice  was  heard,  sing¬ 
ing  a  low,  sad  strain. 

“  Hark  !  ”  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  Donatello’s  arm. 

And  Donatello  had  said,  “  Hark !  ”  at  the  same  in¬ 
stant. 

The  song,  if  song  it  could  be  called,  that  had  only  a 


ON  THE  BATTLEMENTS. 


49 


wild  rhythm,  and  flowed  forth  in  the  fitful  measure  of 
a  wind-harp,  did  not  clothe  itself  in  the  sharp  brilliancy 
of  the  Italian  tongue.  The  words,  so  far  as  they  could 
be  distinguished,  were  German,  and  therefore  unintel¬ 
ligible  to  the  Count,  and  hardly  less  so  to  the  sculptor ; 
being  softened  and  molten,  as  it  were,  into  the  melan¬ 
choly  richness  of  the  voice  that  sung  them.  It  was  as- 
the  murmur  of  a  soul  bewildered  amid  the  sinful  gloom 
of  earth,  and  retaining  only  enough  memory  of  a  better 
state  to  make  sad  music  of  the  wail,  which  would  else 
have  been  a  despairing  shriek.  Never  was  there  pro¬ 
founder  pathos  than  breathed  through  that  mysterious 
voice ;  it  brought  the  tears  into  the  sculptor’s  eyes,  with 
remembrances  and  forebodings  of  whatever  sori’ow  he 
had  felt  or  apprehended ;  it  made  Donatello  sob,  as  chim¬ 
ing  in  with  the  anguish  that  he  found  unutterable,  and 
giving  it  the  expression  which  he  vaguely  souglit. 

But,  when  the  emotion  was  at  its  profoundest  depth, 
the  voice  rose  out  of  it,  yet  so  gradually  that  a  gloom 
seemed  to  pervade  it,  far  upward  from  the  abyss,  and  not 
entirely  to  fall  away  as  it  ascended  into  a  higher  and 
purer  region.  At  last,  the  auditors  would  have  fancied 
that  the  melody,  with  its  rieh  sweetness  all  there,  and 
much  of  its  sorrow  gone,  was  floating  around  the  very 
summit  of  the  tower.  / 

“  Donatello,”  said  the  sculptor,  when  there  was  silence 
again,  “  had  that  voiee  no  message  for  your  ear  ?  ” 

“  I  dare  not  reeeive  it,”  said  Donatello ;  “  the  anguish 
of  which  it  spoke  abides  with  me :  the  hope  dies  away 
with  the  breath  that  brought  it  hither.  It  is  not  good 
for  me  to  hear  that  voice.” 

The  sculptor  sighed,  and  left  the  poor  penitent  keep¬ 
ing  his  vigil  on  the  tower. 


VOL.  II. 


3 


D 


CHAPTER  V. 

DONATELLO’S  BUST. 

ENYON,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  asked  Don¬ 
atello’s  permission  to  model  liis  bust.  The  Mmrk 
had  now  made  considerable  progress,  and  ne¬ 
cessarily  kept  the  sculptor’s  thoughts  brooding  much  and 
often  upon  his  host’s  personal  characteristics.  These  it 
was  his  difficult  office  to  bring  out  from  their  depths,  and 
interpret  them  to  all  men,  showing  them  what  they  could 
not  discern  for  themselves,  yet  must  be  compelled  to 
recognize  at  a  glance,  on  the  surface  of  a  block  of 
marble. 

He  had  never  undertaken  a  portrait-bust  which  gave 
him  so  much  trouble  as  Donatello’s ;  not  that  there  was 
any  special  difficulty  in  hitting  the  likeness,  though  even 
in  this  respect  the  grace  and  harmony  of  the  features 
seemed  inconsistent  with  a  prominent  expression  of  indi¬ 
viduality  ;  but  he  was  chiefly  perplexed  how  to  make 
this  genial  and  kind  type  of  countenance  the  index  of 
the  mind  within.  His  acuteness  and  his  sympathies, 
indeed,  were  both  somewhat  at  fault  in  their  efforts  to 
enlighten  him  as  to  the  moral  phase  through  which  the 
Count  was  now  passing.  If  at  one  sitting  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  what  appeared  to  be  a  genuine  and  perma- 


DONATELLO’S  BUST. 


51 


nent  trait,  it  would  probably  be  less  perceptible  on  a 
second  occasion,  and  perhaps  have  vanished  entirely  at 
a  third.  So  evanescent  a  show  of  character  threw  the 
sculptor  into  despair ;  not  marble  or  clay,  but  cloud  and 
vapor,  was  the  material  in  which  it  ought  to  be  repre¬ 
sented.  Even  the  ponderous  depression  which  constantly 
weighed  upon  Donatello’s  heart  could  not  compel  him 
into  the  kind  of  repose  which  the  plastic  art  requires. 

Hopeless  of  a  good  result,  Kenyon  gave  up  all  precon¬ 
ceptions  about  the  character  of  his  subject,  and  let  his 
hands  work  uncontrolled  with  the  clay,  somewhat  as  a 
spiritual  medium,  while  holding  a  pen,  yields  it  to  an 
nnseen  guidance  other  than  that  of  her  own  will.  Now 
and  then  he  fancied  that  this  plan  was  destined  to  be 
the  successful  one.  A  skill  and  insight  beyond  his  con¬ 
sciousness  seemed  occasionally  to  take  up  the  task.  The 
mystery,  the  miracle,  of  imbuing  an  inanimate  substance 
with  thought,  feeling,  and  all  the  intangible  attributes  of 
the  soul,  appeared  on  the  verge  of  being  wrought.  And 
now,  as  he  flattered  himself,  the  true  image  of  his  friend 
was  about  to  emerge  from  the  facile  material,  bringing 
with  it  more  of  Donatello’s  character  than  the  keenest 
observer  could  detect  at  any  one  moment  in  the  face  of 
the  original.  Vain  expectation  !  some  touch,  whereby 
tlie  artist  thought  to  improve  or  hasten  the  result,  inter¬ 
fered  with  the  design  of  his  unseen  spiritual  assistant, 
and  spoilt  the  whole.  There  was  still  the  moist,  brown 
clay,  indeed,  and  the  features  of  Donatello,  but  without 
any  semblance  of  intelligent  and  sympathetic  life. 

“  The  difficulty  will  drive  me  mad,  I  verily  believe  !  ” 
cried  the  sculptor,  nervously.  “Look  at  the  wretched 
piece  of  work  yourself,  my  dear  friend,  and  tell  me 
whether  you  recognize  any  manner  of  likeness  to  your 
inner  man  ?  ” 


52 


HOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  None,”  replied  Donatello,  speaking  the  simple  truth. 
“  It  is  like  looking  a  stranger  in  the  face.” 

This  frankly  unfavorable  testimony  so  wrought  with 
the  sensitive  artist,  that  he  fell  into  a  passion  with  the 
stubborn  image,  and  cared  not  what  might  happen  to 
it  thenceforward.  Wielding  that  wonderful  power  which 
sculptors  possess  over  moist  clay,  however  refractory 
it  may  show  itself  in  certain  respects,  he  compressed, 
elongated,  widened,  and  otlierwise  altered  the  features 
of  the  bust  in  mere  recklessness,  and  at  every  ehange 
inquired  of  the  Count  whether  the  expression  became 
anywise  more  satisfactory. 

“  Stop !  ”  cried  Donatello,  at  last,  catching  the  sculp¬ 
tor’s  hand.  “  Let  it  remain  so  !  ” 

By  some  accidental  handling  of  the  clay,  entirely 
independent  of  his  own  will,  Kenyon  had  given  the 
countenance  a  distorted  and  violent  look  eombining 
animal  fierceness  Muth  intelligent  hatred.  Had  Hilda, 
or  had  Miriam  seen  the  bust,  with  the  expression 
which  it  had  now  assumed,  they  might  have  recognized 
Donatello’s  face  as  they  beheld  it  at  that  terrible  mo¬ 
ment  when  he  held  his  victim  over  the  edge  of  the  pre¬ 
cipice. 

“  What  have  I  done  ?  ”  said  the  sculptor,  shocked  at 
his  own  casual  production.  It  were  a  sin  to  let  the 
clay  which  bears  your  features  harden  into  a  look  like 
that.  Cain  never  wore  an  uglier  one.” 

“For  that  very  reason,  let  it  remain!”  answered  the 
Count,  who  had  grown  pale  as  ashes  at  the  aspect  of 
his  crime,  thus  strangely  presented  to  him  in  another  of 
the  many  guises  under  which  guilt  stares  the  eriminal  in 
the  face.  “  Do  not  alter  it !  Chisel  it,  rather,  in  eternal 
marble !  ,I  will  set  it  up  in  my  oratory  and  keep  it  con¬ 
tinually  before  my  eyes.  Sadder  and  more  horrible  is  a 


DONATELLO’S  BUST.  53 

f\ice  like  tills,  alive  with  my  own  crime,  than  the  dead 
skull  which  my  forefathers  handed  down  to  me  !  ” 

But,  without  in  the  least  heeding  Donatello’s  remon¬ 
strances,  the  sculptor  again  applied  his  aidful  fingers  to 
the  clay,  and  compelled  the  bust  to  dismiss  the  expres¬ 
sion  that  had  so  startled  them  both. 

“Believe  me,”  said  he,  turning  his  eyes  upon  his 
friend,  full  of  grave  and  tender  sympathy,  “you  know 
not  what  is  requisite  for  your  spiritual  growth,  seeking, 
as  you  do,  to  keep  your  soul  perpetually  in  the  unwhole¬ 
some  region  of  remorse.  It  was  needful  for  you  to  pass 
through  that  dark  valley,  but  it  is  infinitely  dangerous 
to  linger  there  too  long ;  there  is  poison  in  the  atmos¬ 
phere,  when  we  'sit  down  and  brood  in  it,  instead  of 
girding  up  our  loins  to  press  onward.  Not  despondency, 
not  slothful  anguish,  is  what  you  now  require,  —  but 
effort !  Has  there  been  an  unutterable  evil  in  your 
young  life  ?  Then  crowd  it  out  with  good,  or  it  will 
lie  corrupting  there  forever,  and  cause  your  capacity 
for  better  things  to  partake  its  noisome  corruption !  ” 

“  You  stir  up  many  thoughts,”  .said  Donatello,  press¬ 
ing  his  hand  upon  his  brow,  “  but  the  multitude  and 
the  wliirl  of  them  make  me  dizzy.” 

They  now  left  the  sculptor’s  temporary  studio,  without 
observing  that  his  last  accidental  touches,  with  whicli  he 
hurriedly  effaced  the  look  of  deadly  rage,  had  given  the 
bust  a  higher  and  sweeter  expression  than  it  had  hitherto 
worn.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Kenyon  had  not  seen 
it ;  for  only  an  artist,  perhaps,  can  conceive  the  irksome¬ 
ness,  the  irritation  of  brain,  the  depression  of  spirits,  that 
resulted  from  his  failure  to  satisfy  himself,  after  so  much 
toil  and  thought  as  he  had  bestowed  on  Donatello’s  bust. 
In  case  of  success,  indeed,  all  this  thoughtful  toil  would 
have  been  reckoned,  not  only  as  well  bestowed,  but  as 


54 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


among  tlie  happiest  hours  of  his  life ;  whereas,  deeming 
liimself  to  have  failed,  it  was  just  so  much  of  life  that 
had  better  never  have  been  lived ;  for  thus  does  the  good 
or  ill  result  of  his  labor  throw  back  sunshine  or  gloom 
upon  the  artist’s  mind.  The  sculptor,  therefore,  would 
have  done  well  to  glance  again  at  his  work ;  for  here 
were  still  the  features  of  the  antique  Faun,  but  now 
illuminated  with  a  higher  meaning,  such  as  the  old  mar¬ 
ble  never  bore. 

Donatello  having  quitted  him,  Kenyon  spent  the  rest 
of  the  day  strolling  about  the  pleasant  precincts  of  Monte 
Beni,  where  the  summer  was  now  so  far  advanced  that 
it  began,  indeed,  to  partake  of  the  ripe  wealth  of  autumn. 
Ajuicots  had  long  been  abundant,  and  had  passed  away, 
and  plums  and  cherries  along  with  them.  But  now  came 
great,  juicy  pears,  melting  and  delicious,  and  peaches  of 
goodly  size  and  tempting  aspect,  though  cold  and  watery 
to  the  palate,  compared  with  the  sculptor’s  rich  remi¬ 
niscences  of  that  fruit  in  America.  The  purple  figs  had 
already  enjoyed  their  day,  and  the  white  ones  were  lus¬ 
cious  now.  The  contadini  (who,  by  this  time,  knew 
Kenyon  well)  found  many  clusters  of  ripe  grapes  for 
him,  in  every  little  globe  of  which  was  included  a  fra¬ 
grant  draught  of  the  sunny  Monte  Beni  wine. 

Unexpectedly,  in  a  nook,  close  by  the  farm-house,  he 
happened  upon  a  spot  where  the  vintage  had  actually 
commenced.  A  great  heap  of  early  ripened  grapes  had 
been  gathered,  and  thrown  into  a  mighty  tub.  In  the 
middle  of  it  stood  a  lusty  and  jolly  eontadino,  nor  stood, 
merely,  but  stamped  with  all  his  might,  and  danced 
amain  ;  while  the  red  juice  bathed  his  feet,  and  threw 
its  foam  midway  up  his  brown  and  shaggy  legs.  Here, 
then,  was  the  very  process  that  shows  so  picturesquely 
in  Scripture  and  in  poetry,  of  treading  out  the  wine-press 


DONATELLO’S  BUST. 


55 


and  dyeing  the  feet  and  garments  with  the  crimson  eifu- 
sion  as  with  the  blood  of  a  battle-field.  The  memory  of 
the  process  does  not  make  the  Tuscan  wine  taste  more 
deliciously.  The  contadini  hospitably  offered  Kenyon  a 
sample  of  the  new  liquor,  that  had  already  stood  ferment¬ 
ing  for  a  day  or  two.  He  had  tried  a  similar  draught, 
however,  in  years  past,  and  was  little  inclined  to  make 
proof  of  it  again ;  for  he  knew  that  it  would  be  a  sour 
and  bitter  juice,  a  wine  of  woe  and  tribulation,  and  that 
the  more  a  man  drinks  of  such  liquor,  the  sorrier  he  is 
likely  to  be. 

The  scene  reminded  the  sculptor  of  our  New  England 
vintages,  where  the  big  piles  of  golden  and  rosy  apples 
lie  under  the  orchard  trees,  in  the  mild,  autumnal  sun¬ 
shine  ;  and  the  creaking  cider-mill,  set  in  motion  by  a  cir- 
cumgyratory  horse,  is  all  a-gush  with  the  luscious  juice. 
To  speak  frankly,  the  cider-making  is  the  more  pictu¬ 
resque  sight  of  the  two,  and  the  new,  sweet  cider  an 
infinitely  better  drink  than  the  ordinary,  nnripe  Tuscan 
wine.  Such  as  it  is,  however,  the  latter  fills  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  small,  fiat  barrels,  and,  still  growing 
thinner  and  sharper,  loses  the  little  life  it  had,  as  wine, 
and  becomes  apotheosized  as  a  more  praiseworthy  vine¬ 
gar. 

Yet  all  these  vineyard  scenes,  and  the  processes  con¬ 
nected  with  the  culture  of  the  grape,  had  a  flavor  of 
poetry  about  them.  The  toil  that  produces  those  kindly 
gifts  of  nature  which  are  not  the  substance  of  life,  but 
its  luxury,  is  unlike  other  toil.  We  are  inclined  to  fancy 
that  it  does  not  bend  the  sturdy  frame  and  stiffen  the 
overwrought  muscles,  like  the  labor  that  is  devoted  in 
sad,  hard  earnest  to  raise  grain  for  sour  bread.  Cer¬ 
tainly,  the  sunburnt  young  men  and  dark-cheeked  laugh¬ 
ing  girls,  u  lio  weeded  the  rich  acres  of  Monte  Beni, 


56 


EOMA.NCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


might  well  enough  have  passed  for  inhabitants  of  an 
unsophisticated  Arcadia.  Later  in  the  season,  when 
the  true  vintage-time  should  come,  and  the  wine  of  Sun¬ 
shine  gush  into  the  vats,  it  M^as  hardly  too  wild  a  dream 
that  Bacchus  himself  might  revisit  the  haunts  which  he 
loved  of  old.  But,  alas !  where  now  would  he  find  the 
Faun  with  whom  we  see  him  consorting  in  so  many  an 
antique  group  ? 

Donatello’s  remorseful  anguish  saddened  this  primitive 
and  delightful  life.  Kenyon  had  a  pain  of  his  own,  more¬ 
over,  although  not  all  a  pain,  in  the  never-quiet,  never- 
satisfied  yearning  of  his  heart  towards  Hilda.  He  was 
authorized  to  use  little  freedom  towards  that  shy  maiden, 
even  in  his  visions ;  so  that  he  almost  reproached  himself 
when  sometimes  his  imagination  pictured  in  detail  the 
sweet  years  that  they  might  spend  together,  in  a  retreat 
like  this.  It  had  just  that  rarest  quality  of  remoteness 
from  the  actual  and  ordinary  world  —  a  remoteness 
through  which  all  delights  might  visit  them  freely,  sifted 
from  all  troubles  —  which  lovers  so  reasonably  insist 
upon,  in  their  ideal  arrangements  for  a  happy  union. 
It  is  possible,  indeed,  that  even  Donatello’s  grief  and 
Kenyon’s  pale,  sunless  affection  lent  a  charm  to  Monte 
Beni,  which  it  would  not  have  retained  amid  a  more  re¬ 
dundant  joyousness.  The  sculptor  strayed  amid  its  vine¬ 
yards  and  orchards,  its  dells  and  tangled  shrubberies, 
with  somewhat  the  sensations  of  an  adventurer  who 
should  find  his  way  to  the  site  of  ancient  Eden,  and 
behold  its  loveliness  through  the  transparency  of  that 
gloom  which  has  been  brooding  over  those  haunts  of 
innocence  ever  since  the  fall.  Adam  saw  it  in  a  brighter 
sunshine,  but  never  knew  the  shade  of  pensive  beauty 
which  Eden  won  from  his  expulsion. 

It  was  in  the  decline  of  the  afternoon  that  Kenyon 


DONATELLO’S  BUST. 


57 


returned  from  liis  long,  musing  ramble.  Old  Tomaso  — 
between  whom  and  himself  for  some  time  past  there  had 
been  a  mysterious  understanding,  —  met  him  in  the 
entrance-hall,  and  drew  him  a  little  aside. 

“  The  signorina  would  speak  with  you,”  he  whispered. 

“  In  the  chapel  ?  ”  asked  the  sculptor. 

“  No  ;  in  the  saloon  beyond  it,”  answered  the  butler  : 
“the  entrance — you  once  saw  the  signorina  appear 
through  it  —  is  near  the  altar,  hidden  behind  the  tapes¬ 
try.” 

Kenyon  lost  no  time  in  obeying  the  summons. 


3^ 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

THE  MABBLE  SALOON. 

N  an  old  Tuscan  villa,  a  chapel  ordinarily  makes 
one  among  the  numerous  apartments ;  though 
it  often  happens  that  the  door  is  permanently 
eiosed,  the  key  lost,  and  the  plaee  left  to  itself,  in  dusty 
sanctity,  like  that  chamber  in  man’s  heart  where  he  hides 
his  religious  awe.  This  was  very  mueh  the  case  with 
the  chapel  of  Monte  Beni.  One  rainy  day,  however,  in 
his  wanderings  through  the  great,  intrieate  house,  Ken¬ 
yon  had  unexpectedly  found  his  way  into  it,  and  been 
impressed  by  its  solemn  aspect.  The  arched  windows, 
high  upward  in  the  wall,  and  darkened  with  dust  and 
cobweb,  threw  down  a  dim  light  that  showed  the  altar, 
with  a  picture  of  a  martyrdom  above,  and  some  tall 
tapers  ranged  before  it.  They  had  apparently  been 
lighted,  and  burned  an  hour  or  two,  and  been  extin¬ 
guished  perhaps  half  a  century  before.  The  marble  vase 
at  the  entrance  held  some  hardened  mud  at  the  bottom, 
aecruing  from  the  dust  that  had  settled. in  it  during  the 
gradual  evaporation  of  the  holy  water ;  and  a  spider 
(being  an  insect  that  delights  in  pointing  the  moral  of 
desolation  and  neglect)  had  taken  pains  to  weave  a  pro¬ 
digiously  thiek  tissue  across  the  circular  brim.  An  old 


THE  MARBLE  SALOON. 


59 


family  banner,  tattered  by  tlie  motlis,  drooped  from  tlie 
vaulted  roof.  In  niches  there  were  some  mediaeval  busts 
of  Donatello’s  forgotten  ancestry;  and  among  them,  it 
might  be,  the  forlorn  visage  of  that  hapless  knight  be¬ 
tween  whom  and  the  fountain-nymph  had  occurred  such 
tender  love-passages. 

Throughout  all  the  jovial  prosperity  of  Monte  Beni,  this 
one  spot  within  the  domestic  walls  had  kept  itself  silent, 
stern,  and  sad.  When  the  individual  or  the  family  re¬ 
tired  from  song  and  mirth,  they  here  sought  those 
realities  which  men  do  not  invite  their  festive  associates 
to  share.  And  here,  on  the  occasion  above  referred  to, 
the  sculptor  had  discovered  —  accidentally,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  though  with  a  purpose  on  her  part  — 
that  there  was  a  guest  under  Donatello’s  roof,  whose 
presence  the  Count  did  not  suspect.  An  interview  had 
since  taken  place,  and  he  was  now  summoned  to  another. 

He  crossed  the  chapel,  in  compliance  with  Tomaso’s 
instructions,  and  passing  through  the  side  entrance,  ibund 
himself  in  a  saloon,  of  no  great  size,  but  more  magnificent 
than  he  had  supposed  the  villa  to  contain.  As  it  was 
vacant,  Kenyon  had  leisure  to  pace  it  once  or  twice,  and 
examine  it  with  a  careless  sort  of  scrutiny,  before  any 
person  appeared. 

This  beautiful  hall  was  floored  with  rich  marbles,  in 
artistically  arranged  figures  and  compartments.  The 
walls,  likewise,  were  almost  entirely  cased  in  marble  of 
various  kinds,  the  prevalent  variety  being  giallo  antico, 
intermixed  with  verd-antique,  and  others  equally  pre¬ 
cious.  The  splendor  of  the  giallo  antico,  however,  was 
what  gave  character  to  the  saloon  ;  and  the  large  and 
deep  niches,  apparently  intended  for  full-length  statues, 
along  the  walls,  were  lined  with  the  same  costly  mate¬ 
rial.  Without  visiting  Italy,  one  can  have  no  idea  of 


60 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


the  beauty  and  magnificence  that  are  produced  by  tliese 
fittings-np  of  polished  marble.  Without  such  experi¬ 
ence,  indeed,  we  do  not  even  know  what  marble  means, 
in  any  sense,  save  as  the  white  limestone  of  whieh  we 
carve  our  mantel-pieces.  This  rich  hall  of  Monte  Beni, 
moreover,  was  adorned,  at  its  upper  end,  with  two  pil¬ 
lars  that  seemed  to  consist  of  Oriental  alabaster ;  and 
wherever  there  was  a  space  vacant  of  precious  and  varie¬ 
gated  marble,  it  was  frescoed  with  ornaments  in  ara¬ 
besque.  Above,  there  was  a  coved  and  vaulted  ceiling, 
glowing  with  pictured  scenes,  which  affected  Kenyon 
with  a  vague  sense  of  splendor,  without  his  twisting  his 
neck  to  gaze  at  them. 

•  It  is  one  of  the  special  excellences  of  such  a  saloon  of 
polished  and  richly  colored  marble,  that  decay  can  never 
tarnish  it.  Until  the  house  crumbles  down  upon  it,  it 
shines  indestructibly,  and  with  a  little  dusting  looks  just 
as  brilliant  in  its  three  hundredth  year  as  the  day  after 
the  final  slab  of  giallo  antico  was  fitted  into  the  wall. 
To  the  sculptor,  at  this  first  view  of  it,  it  seemed  a  hall 
where  the  sun  was  magically  imprisoned,  and  must  always 
shine.  He  anticipated  Miriam’s  entrance,  arrayed  in 
queenly  robes,  and  beaming  with  even  more  than  the 
singular  beauty  that  had  heretofore  distinguished  her. 

While  this  thought  was  passing  through  his  mind,  the 
pillared  door,  at  the  upper  end  of  the  saloon,  was  partly 
opened,  and  Miriam  appeared.  She  was  very  pale,  and 
dressed  in  deep  mourning.  As  she  advanced  towards  tlie 
sculptor,  the  feebleness  of  her  step  was  so  apparent  that 
he  made  haste  to  meet  her,  apprehending  that  she  might 
sink  down  on  the  marble  floor,  without  the  instant  sup¬ 
port  of  his  arm. 

But,  with  a  gleam  of  her  natural  self-reliance,  she  de¬ 
clined  his  aid,  and,  after  touching  her  cold  hand  to  his, 


THE  MARBLE  SALOON. 


61 


went  and  sat  down  on  one  of  tlie  cusliioned  divans  that 
were  ranged  against  the  wall. 

“  You  are  very  ill,  Miriam  !  ”  said  Kenyon,  mueli 
shoeked  at  her  appearance.  “  I  had  not  thought  of  this.” 

“No;  not  so  ill  as  I  seem  to  you,”  she  answered; 
adding  despondently,  “  yet  I  am  ill  enough,  I  believe,  to 
die,  unless  some  change  speedily  occurs.” 

“  What,  then,  is  your  disorder  ?  ”  asked  the  sculptor ; 
“  and  what  the  remedy  ?  ” 

“  The  disorder  !  ”  repeated  Miriam.  “  There  is  none 
that  I  know  of,  save  too  much  life  and  strength,  without 
a  purpose  for  one  or  the  other.  It  is  my  too  redundant 
energy  that  is  slowly  —  or  perhaps  rapidly  —  wearing 
me  away,  because  I  can  apply  it  to  no  use.  The  object, 
which  I  am  bound  to  consider  my  only  one  on  earth,  fails 
me  utterly.  The  sacrifice  which  I  yearn  to  make  of 
myself,  my  hopes,  my  everything,  is  coldly  put  aside. 
Nothing  is  left  for  me  but  to  brood,  brood,  brood,  all 
day,  all  night,  in  unprofitable  longings  and  repinings.” 

“  This  is  very  sad,  Miriam,”  said  Kenyon. 

“  Ay,  indeed ;  I  fancy  so,”  she  replied,  with  a  short, 
unnatural  laugh. 

“With  all  your  activity  of  mind,”  resumed  he,  “so 
fertile  in  plans  as  I  have  known  you,  can  you  imagine 
no  method  of  bringing  your  resources  into  play  ?  ” 

“  My  mind  is  not  active  any  longer,”  answered  Miriam, 
in  a  cold,  indifferent  tone.  “  It  deals  with  one  thought 
and  no  more.  One  recollection  paralyzes  it.  It  is  not 
remorse ;  do  not  think  it !  I  put  myself  out  of  the 
question,  and  feel  neither  regret  nor  penitence  on  my  own 
behalf.  But  what  benumbs  me,  what  robs  me  of  all 
poAver,  —  it  is  no  secret  for  a  woman  to  tell  a  man,  yet  I 
care  not  though  you  know  it,  — is  the  certainty  that  I  am, 
and  must  ever  be,  an  object  of  horror  in  Donatello’s  sight.” 


62 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


The  sculptor  —  a  young  man,  and  cherishing  a  love 
which  insulated  him  from  the  wild  experiences  which 
some  men  gather  —  was  startled  to  perceive  how  Mir¬ 
iam’s  rich,  ill-regulated  nature  impelled  her  to  fling  her¬ 
self,  conscience  and  all,  on  one  passion,  the  object  of 
which  intellectually  seemed  far  beneath  her. 

“  How  have  you  obtained  the  certainty  of  which  you 
speak?  ”  asked  he,  after  a  pause. 

“O,  by  a  sure  token,”  said  Miriam;  “a  gesture, 
merely ;  a  shudder,  a  cold  shiver  that  ran  through  him 
one  sunny  morning  when  his  hand  happened  to  touch 
mine  !  But  it  was  enough.” 

“  I  firmly  believe,  Miriam,”  said  the  sculptor,  “  that 
he  loves  you  still.” 

She  started,  and  a  flush  of  color  came'  tremulously 
over  the  paleness  of  her  cheek. 

“  Yes,”  repeated  Kenyon,  “  if  my  interest  in  Donatello 
—  and  in  yourself,  Miriam  —  endows  me  with  any  true 
insight,  he  not  only  loves  you  still,  but  with  a  force  and 
depth  proportioned  to  the  stronger  grasp  of  his  faculties, 
in  their  new  development.” 

‘‘  Do  not  deceive  me,”  said  Miriam,  growing  pale 
again. 

“Not  for  the  world  !”  replied  Kenyon.  “Here  is 
what  I  take  to  be  the  truth.  There  was  an  interval,  no 
doubt,  when  the  horror  of  some  calamity,  which  I  need 
not  shape  out  in  my  conjectures,  threw  Donatello  into  a 
stupor  of  mystery.  Connected  with  tlie  first  shock  there 
was  an  intolerable  pain  and  shuddering  repugnance  at¬ 
taching  themselves  to  all  the  circumstances  and  sur¬ 
roundings  of  the  event  that  so  terribly  affected  him. 
Was  his  dearest  friend  involved  within  the  horror  of  that 
moment  ?  He  would  shrink  from  her  as  he  shrank  most 
of  all  from  himself.  But  as  his  mind  roused  itself,  —  as 


THE  MARBLE  SALOON. 


63 


it  rose  to  a  higher  life  than  he  had  hitherto  experienced, 
—  whatever  had  been  true  and  permanent  within  him 
revived  by  the  self-same  impulse.  So  has  it  been  with 
his  love.” 

“  But,  surely,”  said  Miriam,  “  he  knows  that  I  am 
here  !  Why,  then,  except  that  I  am  odious  to  him,  does 
he  not  bid  me  welcome  ?  ” 

“  He  is,  I  believe,  aware  of  your  presence  here,”  an¬ 
swered  the  sculptor.  “  Your  song,  a  night  or  two  ago, 
must  have  revealed  it  to  him,  and,  in  truth,  I  had  fancied 
that  there  was  already  a  consciousness  of  it  in  his  mind. 
But,  the  more  passionately  he  longs  for  your  society,  the 
more  religiously  he  deems  himself  bound  to  avoid  it. 
The  idea  of  a  life-long  penance  has  taken  strong  posses¬ 
sion  of  Donatello.  He  gropes  blindly  about  him  for  some 
method  of  sharp  self-torture,  and  finds,  of  course,  no 
other  so  efficacious  as  this.” 

“  But,  he  loves  me,”  repeated  Miriam,  in  a  low  voice, 
to  herself.  “  Yes  ;  he  loves  me  !  ” 

It  was  strange  to  observe  the  womanly  softness  that 
came  over  her,  as  she  admitted  that  comfort  into  her 
bosom.  The  cold,  unnatural  indifference  of  her  manner, 
a  kind  of  frozen  passionateness,  which  had  shocked  and 
chilled  the  sculptor,  /disappeared.  She  blushed,  and 
turned  away  her  eyes,  knowing  that  there  was  more 
surprise  and  joy  in  their  dewy  glances,  than  any  man 
save  one  ought  to  detect  there. 

“  In  other  respects,”  she  inquired  at  length,  “  is  he 
much  changed  ?  ” 

A  wonderful  process  is  going  forward  in  Donatello’s 
mind,”  answered  the  sculptor.  “The  germs  of  faculties 
that  have  heretofore  slept  are  fast  springing  into  activity. 
The  world  of  thought  is  disclosing  itself  to  his  inward 
sight.  He  startles  me,  at  times,  with  his  perception  of 


64 


IlOMx\NCE  OP  MONTE  BENI. 


deep  truths ;  and,  quite  as  often,  it  must  be  owned  he 
compels  me  to  smile  by  the  intermixture  of  his  former 
simplicity  with  a  new  intelligence.  But,  he  is  bewildered 
with  the  revelations  that  eaeh  day  brings.  Out  of  his 
bitter  agony,  a  soul  and  intellect,  I  could  almost  say, 
have  been  inspired  into  him.” 

“  Ah,  I  could  help  him  here !  ”  cried  Miriam,  clasping 
her  hands.  “  And  how  sweet  a  toil  to  bend  and  adapt 
my  whole  nature  to  do  him  good  !  To  instruct,  to  ele¬ 
vate,  to  enrich  his  mind  with  the  wealth  that  would  flow 
in  upon  me,  had  I  such  a  motive  for  acquiring  it !  who 
else  can  perform  the  task  ?  Who  else  has  the  tender 
sympathy  which  he  requires  ?  Who  else,  save  only 
me, — a  woman,  a  sharer  in  the  same  dread  secret,  a 
partaker  in  one  identical  guilt,  —  could  meet  him  on 
such  terms  of  intimate  equality  as  the  case  demands  ? 
With  this  object  before  me,  I  might  feel  a  right  to  live  ! 
Without  it,  it  is  a  shame  for  me  to  have  lived  so  long.” 

“  I  fully  agree  with  you,”  said  Kenyon,  ‘‘  that  your 
true  place  is  by  his  side.” 

“  Surely  it  is,”  replied  Miriam.  “  If  Donatello  is  enti¬ 
tled  to  aught  on  earth,  it  is  to  my  complete  self-sacrifice 
for  his  sake.  It  does  not  weaken  his  claim,  methinks, 
that  my  only  prospect  of  happiness  —  a  fearful  word, 
however  —  lies  in  the  good  that  may  accrue  to  him  from 
our  intercourse.  But  he  rejects  me  !  He  will  not  listen 
to  the  whisper  of  his  heart,  telling  him  that  she,  most 
wretched,  who  beguiled  him  into  evil,  might  guide  him  to 
a  higher  innocence  than  that  from  which  he  fell.  How  is 
this  first,  great  difficulty  to  be  obviated  ?  ” 

“It  lies  at  your  own  option,  Miriam,  to  do  away  the 
obstacle,  at  any  moment,”  remarked  the  sculptor.  “  It  is 
but  to  ascend  Donatello’s  tower,  and  you  will  meet  him 
there,  under  the  eye  of  God.” 


THE  MARBLE  SALOON. 


65 


“  I  dare  not,”  answered  Miriam.  “  No ;  I  dare  not !  ” 

“  Do  you  fear,”  asked  the  sculptor,  “  the  dread  eye¬ 
witness  whom  I  have  named  ?  ” 

“  No  ;  for,  as  far  as  I  can  see  into  that  cloudy  and  in¬ 
scrutable  thing,  my  heart,  it  has  none  but  pure  motives,” 
replied  Miriam.  “  But,  my  friend,  you  little  know  what 
a  weak  or  what  a  strong  creature  a  woman  is  !  I  fear  not 
Heaven,  in  this  case,  at  least,  but  —  shall  I  confess  it  ? — 

I  am  greatly  in  dread  of  Donatello.  Once  he  shuddered 
at  my  touch.  If  he  shudder  once  again,  or  frown,  I 
die  !  ” 

Kenyon  could  not  but  marvel  at  the  subjection  into 
which  this  proud  and  self-dependent  woman  had  wilfully 
flung  herself,  hanging  her  life  upon  the  chance  of  an  an¬ 
gry  or  favorable  regard  from  a  person  who,  a  little  while 
before,  had  seemed  the  plaything  of  a  moment.  But,  in 
Miriam’s  eyes,  Donatello  was  always,  thenceforth,  invested 
with  the  tragic  dignity  of  their  hour  of  crime  ;  and,  fur¬ 
thermore,  the  keen  and  deep  insight,  with  which  her  love 
endowed  her,  enabled  her  to  know  him  far  better  than  he 
could  be  known  by  ordinary  observation.  Beyond  all 
question,  since  she  loved  him  so,  there  was  a  force  in 
Donatello  worthy  of  her  respect  and  love. 

You  see  my  weakness,”  said  Miriam,  flinging  out  her  - 
hands,  as  a  person  does  when  a  defect  is  acknowledged, 
and  beyond  remedy.  “  What  I  need,  now,  is  an  opportu¬ 
nity  to  show  my  strength.” 

“  It  has  occurred  to  me,”  Kenyon  remarked,  “  that  the 
time  is  come,  when  it  may  be  desirable  To  remove  Dona¬ 
tello  from  the  complete  seclusion  in  which  he  buries  him¬ 
self.  He  has  struggled  long  enough  with  one  idea.  He 
now  needs  a  variety  of  thought,  which  cannot  be  other¬ 
wise  so  readily  supplied  to  him,  as  through  the  medium 
of  a  variety  of  scenes.  His  mind  is  awakened,  now  ;  his 


66 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


heart,  though  full  of  pain,  is  no  longer  benumbed.  They 
should  have  food  and  solace.  If  he  linger  here  much 
longer,  I  fear  that  he  may  sink  back  into  a  lethargy. 
The  extreme  excitability,  which  circumstances  have  im¬ 
parted  to  his-  moral  system,  has  its  dangers  and  its  advan¬ 
tages  ;  it  being  one  of  the  dangers,  that  an  obdurate  scar 
may  supervene  upon  its  very  tenderness.  Solitude  has 
done  what  it  could  for  him ;  now,  for  a  while,  let  him  be 
enticed  into  the  outer  world.” 

“  What  is  your  plan,  then  ?  ”  asked  Miriam. 

“  Simply,”  replied  Kenyon,  “  to  persuade  Donatello  to 
be  my  companion  in  a  ramble  among  these  hills  and  val¬ 
leys.  The  little  adventures  and  vicissitudes  of  travel  will 
do  him  infinite  good.  After  his  recent  profound  experi¬ 
ence,  he  will  re-create  the  world  by  the  new  eyes  with 
which  he  will  regard  it.  He  will  escape,  1  hope,  out  of  a 
morbid  life,  and  find  his  way  into  a  healthy  one.” 

“  And  what  is  to  be  my  part  in  this  process  ?  ”  inquired 
Miriam,  sadly,  and  not  without  jealousy.  “  You  are  tak¬ 
ing  him  from  me,  and  putting  yourself  and  all  man¬ 
ner  of  living  interests,  into  the  place  which  I  ought  to 
fill !  ” 

“  It  would  rejoice  me,  Miriam,  to  yield  the  entire 
responsibility  of  this  office  to  yourself,”  answered  the 
sculptor.  “  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  the  guide  and  coun¬ 
sellor  whom  Donatello  needs  ;  for,  to  mention  no  other 
obstacle,  I  am  a  man,  and  between  man  and  man  there  is 
always  an  insuperable  gulf.  They  can  never  quite- grasp 
each  other’s  hands  ;  and  therefore  man  never  derives  any 
intimate  help,  any  heart  sustenance,  from  his  brother  man, 
but  from  woman,  —  his  mother,  his  sister,  or  his  wife. 
De  Donatello’s  friend  at  need,  therefore,  and  most  gladly 
will  I  resign  him  !  ” 

“  It  is  not  kind  to  taunt  me  thus,”  said  Miriam.  “  I 


THE  MARBLE  SALOON.  67 

have  told  you^tbat  I  cannot  do  what  you  suggest,  because 
I  dare  not.” 

“  Well,  then,”  rejoined  the  sculptor,  “  see  if  there  is 
any  possibility  of  adapting  yourself  to  my  scheme.  The 
incidents  of  a ‘journey  often  fling  people  together  in  the 
oddest  and  therefore  the  most  natural  way.  Supposing 
you  were  to  find  yourself  on  the  same  route,  a  reunion 
with  Donatello  might  ensue,  and  Providence  have  a  larger 
hand  in  it  than  either  of  us.” 

“  It  is  not  a  hopeful  plan,”  said  Miriam,  shaking  her 
head,  after  a  moment’s  thought ;  “  yet  I  will  not  reject  it 
without  a  trial.  Only  in  case  it  fail,  here  is  a  resolution 
to  which  I  bind  myself,  come  what  come  may  !  You  know 
the  bronze  statue  of  Pope  Julius  in  the  great  square  of 
Perugia  ?  I  remember  standing  in  the  shadow'  of  that 
statue  one  sunny  noontime  and  being  impressed  by  its 
paternal  aspect,  and  fancying  that  a  blessing  fell  upon 
me  from  its  outstretched  hand.  Ever  since,  I  have  had 
a  superstition,  —  you  will  call  it  foolish,  but  sad  and  ill- 
fated  persons  always  dream  such  things,  —  that,  if  I 
waited  long  enough  in  that  same  spot,  some  good  event 
would  come  to  pass.  Well,  my  friend,  precisely  a  fort¬ 
night  after  you  begin  your  tour,  —  unless  w'e  sooner 
meet,  —  bring  Donatello,  at  noon,  to  the  base  of  the 
statue.  You  will  find  me  there  !  ” 

Kenyon  assented  to  the  proposed  arrangement,  and, 
after  some  conversation  respecting  his  contemplated  line 
of  travel,  prepared  to  take  his  leave.  As  he  met  Mir¬ 
iam’s  eyes,  in  bidding  farewell,  he  was  surprised  at  the 
new,  tender  gladness  that  beamed  out  of  them,  and  at 
the  appearance  of  health  and  bloom,  which,  in  this  little 
while,  had  overspread  her  face. 

“  May  I  tell  you,  Miriam,”  said  he,  smiling,  “  that  you 
are  still  as  beautiful  as  ever  P  ” 


68 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  You  have  a  right  to  notice  it,”  she  replied,  “Yor,  if  it 
be  so,  my  faded  bloom  has  been  revived  by  the  hopes  you 
give  me.  Do  you,  then,  think  me  beautiful  ?  I  rejoice, 
most  truly.  Beauty  —  if  I  possess  it  —  shall  be  one  of 
the  instruments  by  which  I  will  try  to  educate  and  elevate 
him,  to  whose  good  I  solely  dedicate  myself.” 

The  sculptor  had  nearly  reached  the  door,  when,  hear¬ 
ing  her  call  him,  he  turned  back,  and  beheld  Miriam  still 
standing  where  he  had  left  her,  in  the  magnificent  hall 
which  seemed  only  a  fit  setting  for  her  beauty.  She 
beckoned  him  to  return. 

“You  are  a  man  of  refined  taste,”  said  she;  “more 
than  that,  — a  man  of  delicate  sensibility.  Now  tell  me 
frankly,  and  on  yonr  honor !  Have  I  not  shocked  you 
many  times  during  this  interview  by  my  betrayal  of  wo¬ 
man’s  cause,  my  lack  of  feminine  modesty,  my  reckless, 
passionate,  most  indecorous  avowal,  that  I  live  only  in 
the  life  of  one  who  perhaps  scorns  and  shudders  at  me  ?  ” 

Tims  adjured,  however  difficult  the  point  to  which  she 
brought  him,  the  sculptor  was  not  a  man  to  swerve  aside 
from  the  simple  truth. 

“  Miriam,”  replied  he,  “  you  exaggerate  the  impression 
made  upon  my  mind;  but  it  has  been  painful,  and  some¬ 
what  of  the  character  which  you  suppose.” 

“I  knew  it,”  said  Miriam,  mournfully,  and  with  no 
resentment.  “M^hat  remains  of  my  finer  nature  would 
have  told  me  so,  even  if  it  had  not  been  perceptible  in  all 
your  manner.  Well,  my  dear  friend,  when  you  go  back 
to  Home,  tell  Hilda  what  her  severity  has  done !  She 
was  all  womanhood  to  me ;  and  when  she  cast  me  off,  I 
had  no  longer  any  terms  to  keep  with  the  reserves  and 
decorums  of  my  sex.  Hilda  has  set  me  free  !  Pray  tell 
her  so,  from  Miriam,  and  thank  her !  ” 

“  I  shall  tell  Hilda  nothing  that  will  give  her  pain,” 


THE  MARBLE  SALOON. 


69 


answered  Kenyon.  “  But,  Miriam,  — tliougli  I  know  not 
what  p^assed  between  her  and  yourself,  —  I  feel,  —  and  let 
the  noble  frankness  of  your  disposition  forgive  me,  if  I 
say  so,  —  I  feel  that  she  was  right.  You  have  a  thousand 
admirable  qualities.  Whatever  mass  of  evil  may  have 
fallen  into  your  hfe,  —  pardon  me,  but  your  own  words 
suggest  it,  —  you  are  still  as  capable  as  ever  of  many 
high  and  heroic  virtues.  But  the  white  shining  purity 
of  Hilda’s  nature  is  a  thing  apart  f  and  she  is  bound  by 
the  uiidefiled  material  of  which  God  moulded  her,  to  keep 
that  severity  which  I,  as  well  as  you,  have  recognized.” 

“  O,  you  are  right !  ”  said  Miriam ;  I  never  questioned 
it ;  though,  as  I  told  you,  when  she  cast  me  off,  it  severed 
some  few  remaining  bonds  between  me  and  decorous  wo¬ 
manhood.  But  were  there  anything  to  forgive,  I  do  for¬ 
give  her.  May  you  win  her  virgin  heart ;  for  methinks 
there  can  be  few  men  in  this  evil  Avorld  who  are  not 
more  unworthy  of  her  than  yourself.” 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

SCENES  BY  THE  WAY. 

HEN  it  came  to  the  point  of  quitting  the  re¬ 
poseful  life  of  Monte  Beni,  the  sculptor  was 
not  without  regrets,  and  would  willingly  have 
dreamed  a  little  longer  of  the  sweet  paradise  on  earth 
that  Hilda’s  presence  there  might  make.  Nevertheless, 
amid  all  its  repose,  he  had  begun  to  be  sensible  of  a  rest¬ 
less  melancholy,  to  which  the  cultivators  of  the  ideal  arts 
are  more  liable  than  sturdier  men.  On  his  own  part, 
therefore,  and  leaving  Donatello  out  of  the  case,  he  would 
have  judged  it  well  to  go.  He  made  parting  visits  to  the 
legendary  dell,  and  to  other  delightful  spots  with  which 
he  had  grown  familiar ;  he  climbed  the  tower  again,  and 
saw  a  sunset  and  a  moonrise  over  the  great  valley ;  he 
drank,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  one  flask,  and  then 
another,  of  the  Monte  Beni  Sunshine,  and  stored  up  its 
flavor  in  his  memory,  as  the  standard  of  what  is  exquisite 
in  wine.  These  things  accomplished,  Kenyon  was  ready 
for  the  journey. 

Donatello  had  not  very  easily  been  stirred  out  of  the 
peculiar  sluggishness,  which  inthralls  and  bewitches  mel¬ 
ancholy  people.  He  had  offered  merely  a  passive  resist¬ 
ance,  however,  not  an  active  one,  to  his  friend’s  schemes ; 


SCENES  BY  THE  WAY. 


71 


and  when  the  appointed  hour  came,  he  yielded  to  the  im¬ 
pulse  which  Kenyon  failed  not  to  apply ;  and  was  started 
upon  the  journey  before  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
undertake  it.  They  wandered  forth  at  large,  like  two 
kniglits-errant  among  the  valleys,  and  the  mountains,  and 
the  old  mountain-towns  of  that  picturesque  and  lovely 
region.  Save  to  keep  the  appointment  with  Miriam,  a 
fortnight  thereafter,  in  the  great  square  of  Perugia,  there 
was  nothing  more  definite  in  the  sculptor’s  plan,  than  that 
they  should  let  themselves  be  blown  hither  and  thither 
like  winged  seeds,  that  mount  upon  each  wandering  breeze. 
Yet  there  was  an  idea  of  fatality  implied  in  the  simile  of 
the  winged  seeds  which  did  not  altogether  suit  Kenyon’s 
fancy ;  for,  if  you  look  closely  into  the  matter,  it  will  be 
seen  that  whatever  appears  most  vagrant,  and  utterly 
purposeless,  turns  out,  in  the  end,  to  have  been  impelled 
the  most  surely  on  a  preordained  and  unswerving  track. 
Chance  and  change  love  to  deal  with  men’s  settled  plans, 
not  with  their  idle  vagaries.  If  we  desire  unexpected 
and  unimaginable  events,  we  should  contrive  an  iron 
framework,  such  as  we  fancy  may  compel  the  future  to 
take  one  inevitable  shape ;  then  comes  in  the  unexpected, 
and  shatters  our  design  in  fragments. 

The  travellers  set  forth  on  horseback,  and  purposed  to 
perform  much  of  their  aimless  journeyings,  under  the 
moon,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  morning  or  evening  twi¬ 
light  ;  the  midday  sun,  while  summer  had  liardly  begun 
to  trail  its  departing  skirts  over  Tuscany,  being  still  too 
fervid  to  allow  of  noontide  exposure. 

For  a  while,  they  wandered  in  that  same  broad  valley 
which  Kenyon  had  viewed  with  such  delight  from  the 
Monte  Beni  tower.  The  sculptor  soon  began  to  enjoy 
the  idle  activity  of  their  new  life,  which  the  lapse  of  a 
day  or  two  sufficed  to  establish  as  a  kind  of  system  ;  it  is 


72 


ROMANCE  OE  MONTE  BENI. 


SO  natural  for  mankind  to  be  nomadic,  that  a  very  little 
taste  of  that  primitive  mode  of  existence  subverts  the 
settled  habits  of  many  preceding  years,  Kenyon’s  cares, 
and  whatever  gloomy  ideas  before  possessed  him,  seemed 
to  be  left  at  Monte  Beni,  and  were  scarcely  remembered 
by  the  time  that  its  gray  tower  grew  undistinguishable 
on  the  brown  hillside.  His  perceptive  faculties,  which 
had  found  little  exercise  of  late,  amid  so  thoughtful  a  way 
of  life,  became  keen,  and  kept  his  eyes  busy  with  a  hun¬ 
dred  agreeable  scenes. 

He  delighted  in  the  picturesque  bits  of  rustic  character 
and  manners,  so  little  of  which  ever  comes  upon  the  sur¬ 
face  of  our  life  at  home.  There,  for  example,  were  the 
old  women,  tending  pigs  or  sheep  by  the  wayside.  As 
they  followed  the  vagrant  steps  of  their  charge,  these 
venerable  ladies  kept  spinning  yarn  with  that  elsewhere 
forgotten  contrivance,  the  distaff ;  and  so  wrinkled  and 
stain-looking  were  they,  that  you  might  have  taken  them 
for  the  Parcae,  spinning  the  threads  of  human  destiny. 
In  contrast  with  their  great  grandmothers  were  the  chil¬ 
dren,  leading  goats  of  shaggy  beard,  tied  by  the  horns, 
and  letting  them  browse  on  branch  and  shrub.  It  is  the 
fashion  of  Italy  to  add  the  petty  industry  of  age  and 
childhood  to  the  hum  of  human  toil.  To  the  eyes  of  an 
observer  from  the  Western  world,  it  was  a  strange  spec¬ 
tacle  to  see  sturdy,  sunburnt  creatures,  in  petticoats,  but 
otherwise  manlike,  toiling  side  by  side  with  male  laborers, 
in  the  rudest  work  of  the  fields.  These  sturdy  women 
(if  as  such  we  must  recognize  them)  wore  the  high- 
crowned,  broad-brimmed  hat  of  Tuscan  straw,  the  cus¬ 
tomary  female  head-apparel ;  and,  as  every  breeze  blew 
back  its  breadth  of  brim,  the  sunshine  constantly  added 
depth  to  the  brown  glow  of  their  cheeks.  The  elder  sis¬ 
terhood,  however,  set  off  their  witch-like  ugliness  to  the 


^  ^  '  /  -  / 


SCENES  BY  THE  WAY.  73 

worst  advantage  with  black  felt  hats,  bequeathed  them, 
one  would  fancy,  by  their  long-buried  husbands. 

Another  ordinary  sight,  as  sylvan  as  the  above,  and 
more  agreeablCj  was  a  girl,  bearing  on  her  back  a  huge 
bundle  of  green  twigs  and  shrubs,  or  grass,  intermixed 
with  scarlet  poppies  and  blue  flowers  ;  the  verdant  burden 
-  being  sometimes  of  such  size  as  to  hide  the  bearer’s  fig¬ 
ure,  and  seem  a  self-moving  mass  of  fragrant  bloom  and 
verdure.  Oftener,  however,  tlie  bundle  reached  only 
half-way  down  the  back  of  the  rustic  nymph,  leaving  in 
sight  her  well-developed  lower  limbs,  and  the  crooked 
knife,  hanging  behind  her,  with  which  she  had  been  reap¬ 
ing  this  strange  harvest  sheaf.  A  pre-E,aphaelite  artist 
(he,  for  instance,  who  painted  so  marvellously  a  wind¬ 
swept  heap  of  autumnal  leaves)  might  find  an  admirable 
subject  in  one  of  these  Tuscan  girls  stepping  with  a  free, 
erect,  and  graceful  carriage.  The  miscellaneous  herbage 
and  tangled  twigs  and  blossoms  of  her  bundle,  crowning 
her  head  (while  her  ruddy,  comely  face  looks  out  between 
the  hanging  side  festoons  like  a  larger  flower),  would 
give  the  painter  boundless  scope  for  the  minute  delinea¬ 
tion  which  he  loves. 

Though  mixed  up  with  what  was  rude  and  earlh-like, 
there  was  still  a  remote,  dream-like,  Arcadian  charm, 
which  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  the  daily  toil  of  other 
lands.  Among  the  pleasant  features  of  the  wayside  were 
always  the  vines,  clambering  on  fig-trees,  or  other  sturdy 
trunks ;  they  wreathed  themselves,  in  huge  and  rich  fes¬ 
toons,  from  one  tree  to  another,  suspending  clusters  of 
ripening  grapes  in  the  interval  between.  Under  such 
careless  mode  of  .culture,  the  luxuriant  vine  is  a  lovelier 
spectacle  than  where  it  produces  a  more  precious  liquor, 
and  is  therefore  more  artificially  restrained  and  trimmed. 
Nothing  can  be  more  picturesque  than  an  old  grapevine, 

VOL.  II.  4 


74 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


with  almost  a  trunk  of  its  own,  clinging  fast  around  its 
supporting  tree.  Nor  does  the  picture  lack  its  moral. 
You  might  twist  it  to  more  than  one  grave  purpose,  as 
you  saw  how  the  knotted,  serpentine  growth  imprisoned 
within  its  strong  embrace  the  friend  that  had  supported 
its  tender  infancy ;  and  how  (as  seemingly  flexible  na¬ 
tures  are  prone  to  do)  it  converted  the  sturdier  tree  en¬ 
tirely  to  its  own  selfish  ends,  extending  its  innumerable 
arms  on  every  bough,  and  permitting  hardly  a  leaf  to 
sprout  except  its  own.  It  occurred  to  Kenyon,  that  the 
enemies  of  the  vine,  in  his  native  land,  might  here  have 
seen  an  emblem  of  the  remorseless  gripe,  which  the  habit 
of  vinous  enjoyment  lays  upon  its  victim,  possessing  him 
wholly,  and  letting  him  live  no  life  but  such  as  it  be¬ 
stows. 

The  scene  was  not  less  characteristie  when  their  path 
led  the  two  wanderers  through  some  small,  ancient  town. 
There,  besides  the  peculiarities  of  present  life,  they  saw 
tokens  of  the  life  that  had  long  ago  been  lived  and  flung 
aside.  The  little  town,  sueh  as  we  see  in  our  mind’s  eye, 
would  have  its  gate  and  its  surrounding  walls,  so  ancient 
and  massive  that  ages  had  not  sufficed  to  crumble  them 
away;  but  in  the  lofty  upper  portion  of  the  gateway, 
still  standing  over  the  empty  areh,  where  there  was  no 
longer  a  gate  to  shut,  there  would  be  a  dove-eote,  and 
peaceful  doves  for  the  only  warders.  Pumpkins  lay  rip¬ 
ening  in  the  open  chambers  of  the  structure.  Then,  as 
for  the  town-wall,  on  the  outside  an  orchard  extends 
peacefully  along  its  base,  full,  not  of  apple-trees,  but  of 
those  old  humorists  with  gnarled  trunks  and  twisted 
boughs,  the  olives.  Houses  have  been  built  upon  the 
ramparts,  or  burrowed  out  of  their  ponderous  foundation. 
Even  the  gray,  martial  towers,  erowned  with  ruined  tur¬ 
rets,  have  been  converted  into  rustic  habitations,  from  the 


SCENES  BY  THE  WAY. 


75 


windows  of  which  hang  ears  of  Indian  corn.  At  a  door, 
that  has  been  broken  through  the  massive  stone-work, 
where  it  was  meant  to  be  strongest,  some  contadini  are 
winnowing  grain.  Small  windows,  too,  are  pierced 
through  the  whole  line  of  ancient  wall,  so  that  it  seems 
a  row  of  dwellings  with  one  continuous  front,  built  in  a 
strange  style  of  needless  strength ;  but  remnants  of  the 
old  battlements  and  machieolations  are  interspersed  with 
tlie  homely  chambers  and  earthen-tiled  house-tops ;  and 
all  along  its  extent  both  grapevines  and  running  flower- 
shrubs  are  eneouraged  to  clamber  and  sport  over  the 
roughnesses  of  its  decay. 

finally  the  long  grass,  intermixed  with  weeds  and  wild- 
flowers,  waves  on  the  uppermost  height  of  the  shattered 
rampart ;  and  it  is  exceedingly  pleasant  in  the  golden 
sunshine  of  the  afternoon  to  behold  the  warlike  precinct 
so  friendly  in  its  old  days,  and  so  overgrown  with  rural 
peace.  In  its  guard-rooms,  its  prison-chambers,  and 
scooped  out  of  its  ponderous  breadth,  there  are  dwellings 
nowadays  where  happy  human  lives  are  spent.  Human 
parents  and  broods  of  children  nestle  in  them,  even  as 
the  swallows  nestle  in  the  little  crevices  along  the  broken 
summit  of  the  wall. 

Passing  through  the  gateway  of  this  same  little  town, 
challenged  only  by  those  watchful  sentinels,  the  pigeons, 
we  find  ourselves  in  a  long,  narrow  street,  paved  from  side 
to  side  with  flagstones,  in  the  old  Homan  fashion.  Noth¬ 
ing  can  exceed  the  grim  ugliness  of  the  houses,  most  of 
which  are  three  or  four  stories  high,  stone  built,  gray, 
dilapidated,  or  half-covered  with  plaster  in  patches,  and 
contiguous  all  along  from  end  to  end  of  the  town.  Na¬ 
ture,  in  the  shape  of  tree,  shrub,  or  grassy  sidewalk,  is  as 
much  shut  out  from  the  one  street  of  the  rustic  village  as 
from  the  heart  of  any  swarming  city.  The  dark  and  half- 


76 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


ruinous  habitations,  with  their  small  windows,  many  of 
which  are  drearily  closed  with  wooden  shutters,  are  but 
magnified  hovels,  piled  story  upon  story,  and  squalid  with 
the  grime  that  successive  ages  have  left  behind  them.  It 
would  be  a  hideous  scene  to  contemplate  in  a  rainy  day, 
or  when  no  human  life  pervaded  it.  In  the  summer-noon, 
however,  it  possesses  vivacity  enough  to  keep  itself  cheer¬ 
ful  ;  for  all  the  within-doors  of  the  village  then  bubbles 
over  upon  the  flagstones,  or  looks  out  from  the  small 
windows,  and  from  here  and  there  a  balcony.  Some  of 
the  populace  are  at  the  butcher’s  shop  ;  others  are  at  the 
fountain,  wliich  gushes  into  a  marble  basin  that  resembles 
an  antique  sarcophagus.  A  tailor  is  sewing  before  his 
door  with  a  young  priest  seated  sociably  beside  him  ;  a 
burly  friar  goes  by  with  an  empty  wine-barrel  on  his 
liead  ;  children  are  at  play ;  women  at  their  own  door¬ 
steps  mend  clothes,  embroider,  weave  hats  of  Tuscan 
straw,  or  twirl  the  distaff.  Many  idlers,  meanwhile, 
strolling  from  one  group  to  another,  let  the  warm  day 
slide  by  in  the  sweet,  interminable  task  of  doing  nothing. 

From  all  these  people  there  comes  a  babblement  that 
seems  quite  disproportioned  to  the  number  of  tongues 
that  make  it.  So  many  words'  are  not  uttered  in  a  New 
England  village  throughout  the  year  —  except  it  be  at  a  , 
political  canvass  or  town-meeting  —  as  are  spoken  here, 
with  no  especial  purpose,  in  a  single  day.  Neither  so 
many  words,  nor  so  much  laughter ;  for  people  talk  about 
nothing,  as  if  they  were  terribly  in  earnest,  and  make 
merry  at  nothing,  as  if  it  were  the  best  of  all  possible 
jokes.  Ill  so  long  a  time  as  they  have  existed,  and  within 
such  narrow  precincts,  these  little  walled  towns  are  brought 
into  a  closeness  of  society  that  makes  them  but  a  larger 
household.  All  the  inhabitants  are  akin  to  each,  and 
each  to  all ;  they  assemble  in  the  street  as  their  common 


/- 


2- 


SCENES  BY  THE  WAY. 


77 


saloon,  and  thus  live  and  die  in  a  familiarity  of  inter¬ 
course,  such  as  never  can  be  known  wdiere  a  village  is 
open  at  either  end,  and  all  roundabout,  and  has  ample 
room  within  itself. 

Stuck  up  beside  the  door  of  one  house,  in  this  village 
street,  is  a  Avithered  bough ;  and  on  a  stone  seat,  just 
under  the  shadow  of  the  bough,  sits  a  party  of  jolly  drink¬ 
ers,  making  proof  of  the  iieAV  wine,  or  quaffing  the  old,  as 
their  often-tried  and  comfortable  friend.  Kenyon  draws 
bridle  here  (for  the  bough,  or  bush,  is  a  symbol  of  the 
Avine-shop  at  this  day  in  Italy,  as  it  Avas  three  hundred 
years  ago  in  England),  and  calls  for  a  goblet  of  the  deep, 
mild  purple  juice,  Avell  diluted  Avith  Avater  from  the  foun¬ 
tain.  The  Sunshine  of  Monte  Beni  Avould  be  welcome 
now.  Meanwhile,  Donatello  has  ridden  onward,  but 
alights  Avhere  a  shrine,  Avith  a  burning  lamp  before  it,  is 
built  into  the  Avail  of  an  inn-stable.  He  kneels,  and 
crosses  himself,  and  mutters  a  brief  prayer,  Avithout  at¬ 
tracting  notice  from  the  passers-by,  many  of  whom  are 
parenthetically  devout,  in  a  similar  fashion.  By  this  time 
the  sculptor  has  drunk  off  his  Avine-and-water,  and  our 
two  travellers  resume  their  Avay,  emerging  from  the  op¬ 
posite  gate  of  the  village. 

Before  them,  again,  lies  the  broad  valley,  with  a  mist 
so  thinly  scattered  over  it  as  to  be  perceptible  only  in  the 
distance,  and  most  so  in  the  nooks  of  the  hills.  Now  that 
we  have  called  it  mist,  it  seems  a  mistake  not  rather  to 
have  called  it  sunshine  ;  the  glory  of  so  much  light  being 
mingled  with  so  little  gloom,  in  the  airy  material  of  that 
vapor.  Be  it  mist  or  sunshine,  it  adds  a  touch  of  ideal 
beauty  to  the  scene,  almost  persuading  the  spectator  that 
this  valley  and  those  hills  are  Ausionary,  because  their 
visible  atmosphere  is  so  like  the  substance  of  a  dream. 

Immediately  about  them,  hoAvever,  there  Avere  abun- 


78 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


dant  tokens  that  the  eountry  was  not  really  the  paradise 
it  looked  to  be,  at  a  casual  glance.  Neither  the  wretched 
cottages  nor  the  dreary  farm-houses  seemed  to  partake  of 
the  prosperity,  with  which  so  kindly  a  climate,  and  so 
fertile  a  portion  of  Mother  Earth’s  bosom,  should  have 
filled  them,  one  and  all.  But,  possibly,  the  peasant  in¬ 
habitants  do  not  exist  in  so  grimy  a  poverty,  and  in 
homes  so  comfortless,  as  a  stranger,  with  his  native  ideas 
of  those  matters,  would  be  likely  to  imagine.  The  Italians 
appear  to  possess  none  of  that  emulative  pride  which  we 
see  in  our  New  England  villages,  where  every  house¬ 
holder,  according  to  his  taste  and  means,  endeavors  to 
make  his  homestead  an  ornament  to  the  grassy  and  elm- 
shadowed  wayside.  In  Italy  there  are  no  neat  doorsteps 
and  thresholds ;  no  pleasant,  vine-sheltered  porches ;  none 
of  those  grass-plots  or  smoothly  shorn  lawns,  which  hos¬ 
pitably  invite  the  imagination  into  the  sweet  domestic 
interiors  of  English  life.  Everything,  however  sunny 
and  luxuriant  may  be  the  scene  around,  is  especially  dis¬ 
heartening  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  an  Italian 
home. 

An  artist,  it  is  true,  might  often  thank  his  stars  for 
those  old  houses,  so  picturesquely  time-stained,  and  with 
the  plaster  falling  in  blotches  from  the  ancient  brick-work. 
The  prison-like,  iron-barred  windows,  and  the  wide- 
arched,  dismal  entrance,  admitting  on  one  hand  to  the 
stable,  on  the  other  to  the  kitchen,  might  impress  him  as 
far  better  worth  his  pencil  than  the  newly  painted  pine 
boxes,  in  which  —  if  he  be  an  American  —  his  country¬ 
men  live  and  thrive.  But  there  is  reason  to  suspect  that 
a  people  are  waning  to  decay  and  ruin  the  moment  that 
their  life  becomes  fascinating  either  in  the  poet’s  imagina¬ 
tion  or  the  painter’s  eye. 

As  usual,  on  Italian  waysides,  the  wanderers  passed 


^  '  I  ! 


SCENES  BY  THE  WAY. 


79 


great,  black  crosses,  hung  with  all  the  instruments  of 
the  sacred  agony  and  passion ;  there  were  the  crown  of 
thorns,  the  hammer  and  nails,  the  pincers,  the  spear, 
the  sponge ;  and  perched  over  the  whole,  the  cock  that 
crowed  to  St.  Peter’s  remorseful  conscience.  Thus, 
while  the  fertile  scene  showed  the  never-failing  benefi¬ 
cence  of  the  Creator  towards  man  in  his  transitory  state, 
these  symbols  reminded  each  wayfarer  of  the  Saviour’s 
infinitely  greater  love  for  him  as  an  immortal  spirit.  Be¬ 
holding  these  consecrated  stations,  the  idea  seemed  to 
strike  Donatello  of  converting  the  otherwise  aimless 
journey  into  a  penitential  pilgrimage.  At  each  of  them 
lie  alighted  to  kneel  and  kiss  the  cross,  and  humbly  press 
his  forehead  against  its  foot ;  and  this  so  invariably,  that 
the  sculptor  soon  learned  to  draw  bridle  of  his  own  accord. 
It  may  be,  too,  heretic  as  he  was,  that  Kenyon  likewise 
put  up  a  prayer,  rendered  more  fervent  by  the  symbols 
before  his  eyes,  for  the  peace  of  his  friend’s  conscience, 
and  the  pardon  of  the  sin  that  so  oppressed  him. 

Not  only  at  the  crosses  did  Donatello  kneel,  but  at 
each  of  the  many  shrines,  where  the  Blessed  Virgin  in 
fresco  —  faded  with  sunshine  and  half  washed  out  with 
showers  —  looked  benignly  at  her  worshipper ;  or  where 
she  was  represented  in  a  wooden  image,  or  a  bas-relief 
of  plaster  or  marble,  as  accorded  with  the  means  of  the 
devout  person  who  built,  or  restored  from  a  mediaeval 
antiquity,  these  plaees  of  wayside  worship.  They  were 
everywhere ;  under  arched  niches,  or  in  little  penthouses 
with  a  brick  tiled  roof,  just  large  enough  to  shelter  them ; 
or  perhaps  in  some  bit  of  old  Boman  masonry,  the  found¬ 
ers  of  whieh  had  died  before  the  Advent ;  or  in  the  wall 
of  a  country  inn  or  farm-house,  or  at  the  midway  point 
of  a  bridge,  or  in  the  shallow  cavity  of  a  natural  rock,  or 
high  upward  in  the  deep  cuts  of  the  road.  It  appeared 


80 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


to  tlie  sculptor  that  Donatello  prayed  the  more  earnestly 
and  the  more  hopefully  at  these  shrines,  because  the  mild 
face  of  the  Madonna  promised  him  to  intercede  as  a  ten¬ 
der  mother  betwixt  the  poor  culprit  and  the  awfulness  of 
judgment. 

It  was  beautiful  to  observe,  indeed,  how  tender  was  the 
soul  of  man  and  woman  towards  the  Virgin  mother,  in 
recognition  of  the  tenderness  which,  as  their  faith  taught 
them,  she  immortally  cherishes  towards  all  human  souls. 
In  the  wire-work  screen,  before  each  shrine,  hung  offer¬ 
ings  of  roses,  or  whatever  flower  was  sweetest  and  most 
seasonable ;  some  already  wilted  and  withered,  some  fresh 
with  that  very  morning’s  dew-drops.  Flowers  there  were, 
too,  that,  being  artificial,  never  bloomed  on  earth,  nor 
would  ever  fade.  The  thought  occurred  to  Kenyon,  that 
flower-pots  with  living  plants  might  be  set  within  the 
niches,  or  even  that  rose-trees,  and  all  kinds  of  flowering 
shrubs,  might  be  reared  under  the  shrines  and  taught  to 
twine  and  wreathe  themselves  around ;  so  that  the  Virgin 
should  dwell  within  a  bower  of  verdure,  bloom,  and  fra¬ 
grant  freshness,  symbolizing  a  homage  perpetually  new. 
There  are  many  things  in  the  religious  customs  of  these 
people  that  seem  good ;  many  things,  at  least,  that  might 
be  both  good  and  beautiful,  if  the  soul  of  goodness  and 
the  sense  of  beauty  w^ere  as  much  alive  in  the  Italians 
now  as  they  must  have  been  when  those  customs  were 
first  imagined  and  adopted.  But,  instead  of  blossoiTis  on 
the  shrub,  or  freshly  gathered,  with  the  dew-drops  on 
Iheir  leaves,  their  worship,  now^adays,  is  best  symbolized 
by  the  artificial  flower. 

The  sculptor  fancied,  moreover  (but  perhaps  it  was  his 
heresy  that  suggested  the  idea),  that  it  would  be  of  happy 
influence  to  place  a  comfortable  and  shady  seat  beneath 
every  wayside  shrine.  Then  the  weary  and  sun-scorched 


SCENES  BY  THE  WAY. 


81 


traveller,  wliile  resting  himself  under  her  protecting  shad¬ 
ow,  might  thank  the  Virgin  for  her  hospitality.  Nor, 
perchance,  were  he  to  regale  himself,  even  in  such  a  con¬ 
secrated  spot,  with  the  fragrance  of  a  pipe,  would  it  rise 
to  heaven  more  offensively  than  the  smoke  of  priestly 
incense.  We  do  ourselves  wrong,  and  too  meanly  es¬ 
timate  the  Holiness  above  us,  when  we  deem  that  any 
act  or  enjoyment,  good  in  itself,  is  not  good  to  do  re¬ 
ligiously. 

Whatever  may  be  the  iniquities  of  the  papal  system,  it 
was  a  wise  and  lovely  sentiment,  that  set  up  the  frequent 
shrine  and  cross  along  the  roadside.  No  wayfarer,  bent 
on  whatever  worldly  errand,  can  fail  to  be  reminded,  at 
every  mile  or  two,  that  this  is  not  the  business  which 
most  concerns  him.  The  pleasure-seeker  is  silently  ad¬ 
monished  to  look  heavenward  for  a  joy  infinitely  greater 
than  he  now  possesses.  The  wretch  in  temptation  beholds 
the  cross,  and  is  warned,  that  if  he  yield,  the  Saviour’s 
agony  for  his  sake  will  have  been  endured  in  vain.  The 
stubborn  criminal,  whose  heart  has  long  been  like  a  stone, 
feels  it  throb  anew  with  dread  and  hope ;  and  our  poor 
Donatello,  as  he  went  kneeling  from  shrine  to  cross,  and 
from  cross  to  shrine,  doubtless  found  an  efficacy  in  these 
symbols  that  helped  him  towards  a  higher  penitence. 

Whether  the  young  Count  of  Monte  Beni  noticed  the 
fact,  or  no,  there  was  more  than  one  incident  of  their 
journey  that  led  Kenyon  to  believe  that  they  were  at¬ 
tended,  or  closely  followed,  or  preceded,  near  at  hand,  by 
some  one  who  took  an  interest  in  their  motions.  As  it 
.were,  the  step,  the  sweeping  garment,  the  faintly  heard 
breath,  of  an  invisible  companion,  was  beside  them,  as 
they  went  on  their  way.  It  was  like  a  dream  that  had 
strayed  out  of  their  slumber  and  was  haunting  them  in 
the  daytime,  when  its  shadowy  substance  could  have 


82 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


neither  density  nor  outline,  in  the  too  obtrusive  light. 
After  sunset,  it  grew  a  little  more  distinet, 

“  On  the  left  of  that  last  shrine,”  asked  the  seulptor, 
as  they  rode,  under  the  moon,  “  did  you  observe  the 
figure  of  a  woman  kneeling,  with  her  faee  hidden  in  her 
hands  ? ” 

“I  never  looked  that  way,”  replied  Donatello.  ‘‘I  was 
saying  my  own  prayer.  It  was  some  penitent,  perchanee. 
May  the  Blessed  Virgin  be  the  more  gracious  to  the  poor 
soul,  because  she  is  a  woman.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


PICTURED  WINDOWS. 


ETER  wide  wanderings  througli  tlie  valley,  the 
two  travellers  directed  their  course  towards  its 
boundary  of  hills.  Here,  the  natural  scenery 
and  men’s  modifications  of  it  immediately  took  a  different 
aspect  from  that  of  the  fertile  and  smiling  plain.  Not 
unfrequently  there  was  a  convent  on  the  hillside ;  or, 
on  some  insulated  promontory,  a  ruined  castle,  once  the 
den  of  a  robber  chieftain,  who  was  accustomed  to  dash 
down  from  his  commanding  height  upon  the  road  that 
wound  below.  For  ages  back,  the  old  fortress  had  been 
flinging  down  its  crumbling  ramparts,  stone  by  stone, 
towards  the  grimy  village  at  its  foot. 

Their  road  wound  onward  among. the  hills,  which  rose 
steep  and  lofty  from  the  scanty  level  space  that  lay  be¬ 
tween  them.  They  continually  thrust  their  great  bulks 
before  the  wayfarers,  as  if  grimly  resolute  to  forbid  their 
passage,  or  closed  abruptly  behind  them,  when  they  still 
dared  to  proceed.  A  gigantic  hill  would  set  its  foot 
right  down  before  them,  and  only  at  the  last  moment, 
would  grudgingly  withdraw  it,  just  far  enough  to  let 
them  creep  towards  another  obstacle.  Adown  these 
rough  heights  were  visible  the  dry  tracks  of  many  a 


84 


llOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


mountain-torrent  that  had  lived  a  life  too  tierce  and  pas¬ 
sionate  to  be  a  long  one.  Or,  perhaps  a  stream  was  yet 
hurrying  shyly  along  the  edge  of  a  far  wider  bed  of  peb¬ 
bles  and  shelving  rock  than  it  seemed  to  need,  though 
not  too  wide  for  the  swollen  rage  of  which  this  shy 
rivulet  was  capable.  A  stone  bridge  bestrode  it,  the 
ponderous  arehes  of  whieh  were  upheld  and  rendered 
indestructible  by  the  weight  of  the  very  stones  that 
threatened  to  erush  them  down.  Old  Roman  toil  was 
pereeptible  in  the  foundations  of  that  massive  bridge ; 
the  first  weight  that  it  ever  bore  was  that  of  an  army 
of  the  Republie. 

Threading  these  defiles,  they  would  arrive  at  some  im¬ 
memorial  city,  crowning  the  high  summit  of  a  hill  with 
its  cathedral,  its  many  ehurehes,  and  public  edifices,  all 
of  Gothie  arehiteeture.  With  no  more  level  ground  than 
a  single  piazza,  in  the  midst,  the  aneient  toAvn  tumbled 
its  crooked  and  narrow  streets  down  the  mountain-side, 
through  arched  passages  and  by  steps  of  stone.  The 
aspect  of  everything  was  awfully  old;  older,  indeed,  in 
its  effect  on  the  imagination,  than  Rome  itself,  because 
history  does  not  lay  its  finger  on  these  forgotten  edifices 
and  tell  us  all  about  their  origin.  Etriisean  princes  may 
have  dwelt  in  them.  A  thousand  years,  at  all  events, 
would  seem  but  a  middle  age  for  these  structures.  They 
are  built  of  sueh  huge,  square  stones,  that  their  appear¬ 
ance  of  ponderous  durability  distresses  the  beholder  with 
the  idea  that  they  can  never  fall,  —  never  crumble  away, 
—  never  be  less  fit  than  now  for  human  habitation.  Many 
of  them  may  once  have  been  palaces,  and  still  retain  a 
squalid  grandeur.  But,  gazing  at  them,  we  recognize 
how  undesirable  it  is  to  build  the  tabernacle  of  our  brief 
lifetime  out  of  permanent  materials,  and  with  a  view  to 
their  being  occupied  by  future  generations. 


PICTURED  WINDOWS. 


85 


’  All  towns  should  be  made  capable  of  purification  by 
fire,  or  of  decay  within  each  half-century.  Otherudse, 
they  become  the  hereditary  haunts  of  vermin  and  noi¬ 
someness,  besides  standing  apart  from  the  possibility  of 
such  improvements  as  are  constantly  introduced  into  the 
rest  of  man’s  contrivances  and  accommodations.  It  is 
beautiful,  no  doubt,  and  exceedingly  satisfactory  to  some 
of  our  natural  instincts,  to  imagine  our  far  posterity 
dwelling  under  the  same  roof-tree  as  ourselves.  Still, 
when  people  insist  on  building  indestructible  houses,  they 
incur,  or  their  children  do,  a  misfortune  analogous  to  that 
of  the  Sibyl,  when  she  obtained  the  grievous  boon  of 
immortality.  So,  we  may  build  almost  immortal  habita¬ 
tions,  it  is  true ;  but  we  cannot  keep  them  from  growing 
old,  musty,  unwholesome,  dreary,  full  of  death-scents, 
ghosts,  and  murder-stains ;  in  short,  such  habitations  as 
one  sees  everywhere  in  Italy,  be  they  hovels  or  palaces. 

“You  should  go  with  me  to  my  native  country,”  ob¬ 
served  the  sculptor,  to  Donatello.  “  In  that  fortunate 
land,  each  generation  has  only  its  own  sins  and  sorrows 
to  bear.  Here,  it  seems  as  if  all  the  weary  and  dreary 
Past  were  piled  upon  the  back  of  the  Present.  If  I  were 
to  lose  my  spirits  in  this  country,  —  if  I  were  to  suffer 
any  heavy  misfc)rtune  here,  —  methinks  it  would  be 
impossible  to  stand  up  against  it,  under  such  adverse 
influences.” 

“The  sky  itself  is  an  old  roof,  now,”  answered  the 
Count ;  “  and,  no  doubt,  the  sins  of  mankind  have  made 
it  gloomier  than  it  used  to  be.” 

“  O,  my  poor  Faun,”  thought  Kenyon  to  himself,  “  how 
art  thou  changed  !  ” 

A  city,  like  this  of  which  we  speak,  seems  a  sort  of 
stony  growth  out  of  the  hillside,  or  a  fossilized  town ;  so 
ancient  and  strange  it  looks,  without  enough  of  life  and 


86 


ROMANCE  OE  MONTE  BENI. 


juiciness  in  it  to  be  any  longer  susceptible  of  deeay.  An 
earthquake  would  afford  it  the  only  chanee  of  being 
ruined,  beyond  its  present  ruin. 

Yet,  though  dead  to  all  the  purposes  for  which  we  live 
to-day,  the  place  has  its  glorious  recollections,  and  not 
merely  rude  and  warlike  ones,  but  those  of  brighter  and 
milder  triumphs,  the  fruits  of  whieh  we  still  enjoy.  Italy 
can  count  several  of  these  lifeless  towns  which,  four  or 
five  hundred  years  ago,  were  each  the  birthplaee  of  its 
own  school  of  art;  nor  have  they  yet  forgotten  to  be 
proud  of  the  dark,  old  pictures,  and  the  faded  frescos, 
the  pristine  beauty  of  which  was  a  light  and  gladness  to 
the  world.  But  now,  unless  one  happens  to  be  a  painter, 
these  famous  works  make  us  miserably  desperate.  They 
are  poor,  dim  ghosts  of  what,  when  Giotto  or  Cimabue 
first  created  them,  threw  a  splendor  along  the  stately 
aisles ;  so  far  gone  towards  nothingness,  in  our  day,  that 
scarcely  a  hint  of  design  or  expression  can  glimmer 
through  the  dusk.  Those  early  artists  did  well  to  paint 
their  frescos.  Glowing  on  the  chureh-walls,  they  miglit 
be  looked  upon  as  symbols  of  the  living  spirit  that  made 
Catholicism  a  true  religion,  and  that  glorified  it  as  long 
as  it  retained  a  genuine  hfe;  they  filled  the  transepts 
with  a  radiant  throng  of  saints  and  angels,  and  threw 
around  the  high,  altar  a  faint  reflection  —  as  much  as 
mortals  could  see,  or  bear  —  of  a  Diviner  Presence. 
But  now  that  the  colors  are  so  wretchedly  bedimmed,  — 
now  that  blotches  of  plastered  wall  dot  the  frescos  all 
over,  like  a  mean  reality  thrusting  itself  through  life’s- 
brightest  illusions,  —  the  next  best  artist  to  Cimabue  or 
Giotto  or  Ghirlandaio  or  Pinturieehio,  will  be  he  that 
shall  reverently  cover  their  ruined  masterpieces  with 
whitewash ! 

Kenyon,  however,  being  an  earnest  student  and  critic 


PICTURED  WINDOW. 


87 


of  Art,  lingered  long  before  these  pathetic  relics  ;  and 
Donatello,  in  his  present  phase  of  penitence,  thought  no 
time  spent  amiss  while  he  could  be  kneeling  before  an 
altar.  Whenever  they  found  a  cathedral,  therefore,  or  a 
Gothic  churcli,  the  two  travellers  were  of  one  mind  to 
enter  it.  In  some  of  these  holy  edifices  they  saw  pictures 
that  time  had  not  dimmed  nor  injured  in  the  least,  tliough 
they  perhaps  belonged  to  as  old  a  school  of  Art  as  any 
that  were  perishing  around  them.  These  were  the  painted 
windows ;  and  as  often  as  he  gazed  at  them  the  sculptor 
blessed  the  mediaeval  time,  and  its  gorgeous  contrivances 
of  splendor;  for  surely  the  skill  of  man  has  never  accom¬ 
plished,  nor  his  mind  imagined,  any  other  beauty  or  glory 
worthy  to  be  compared  with  these. 

It  is  the  special  excellence  of  pictured  glass,  that  the 
light,  which  falls  merely  on  the  outside  of  other  pictui'es, 
is  here  interfused  throughout  the  work  ;  it  illuminates 
the  design,  and  invests  it  with  a  living  radiance  ;  and 
in  requital  the  unfading  colors  transmute  the  common 
daylight  into  a  miracle  of  richness  and  glory  in  its 
passage  through  the  heavenly  substance  of  the  blessed 
and  angelic  shapes  which  throng  the  high-arched  win¬ 
dow. 

“  It  is  a  woful  thing,”  cried  Kenyon,  while  one  of 
these  frail,  yet  enduring  and  fadeless  pictures  threw  its 
hues  on  his  face,  and  on  tlie  pavement  of  the  church 
around  him,  —  “a  sad  necessity  that  any  Christian  soul 
should  pass  from  earth  without  once  seeing  an  antique 
painted  window,  with  the  bright  Italian  sunshine  glowing 
through  it !  There  is  no  other  such  true  symbol  of  the 
glories  of  the  better  world,  where  a  celestial  radiance  will 
be  inherent  in  all  things  and  persons,  and  render  each 
continually  transparent  to  the  sight  of  all.” 

“  But  what  a  horror  it  would  be,”  said  Donatello,  sadly. 


88 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


‘‘  if  there  were  a  soul  among  them  through  which  the 
light  could  not  be  transfused !  ’’ 

“  Yes ;  and  perhaps  this  is  to  be  the  punishment  of  sin,” 
replied  the  sculptor ;  “  not  that  it  shall  be  made  evident 
to  the  universe,  which  can  profit  nothing  by  such  knowl¬ 
edge,  but  that  it  shall  insulate  the  sinner  from  all  sweet 
society  by  rendering  him  impermeable  to  light,  and,  there¬ 
fore,  unrecognizable  in  the  abode  of  heavenly  simplicity 
and  truth.  Then,  what  remains  for  him,  but  the  dreari¬ 
ness  of  infinite  and  eternal  solitude  ?  ” 

That  would  be  a  horrible  destiny,  indeed !  ”  said 
Donatello. 

His  voice  as  he  spoke  the  words  had  a  hollow  and 
dreary  cadence,  as  if  he  anticipated  some  such  frozen 
solitude  for  himself.  A  figure  in  a  dark  robe  was  lurking 
in  the  obscurity  of  a  side-chapel  close  by,  and  made  an 
impulsive  movement  forward,  but  hesitated  as  Donatello 
spoke  again. 

“But  there  might  be  a  more  miserable  torture  than 
to  be  solitary  forever,”  said  he.  “  Think  of  having  a 
single  companion  in  eternity,  and  instead  of  finding  any 
consolation,  or  at  all  events  variety  of  torture,  to  see  your 
own  weary,  weary  sin  repeated  in  that  inseparable  soul.” 

“  I  think,  my  dear  Count,  you  have  never  read  Dante,” 
observed  Kenyon.  “  That  idea  is  somewhat  in  his  style, 
but  I  cannot  help  regretting  that  it  came  into  your  mind 
just  then.” 

The  dark-robed  figure  had  shrunk  back,  and  was  quite 
lost  to  sight  among  the  shadows  of  the  chapel. 

“  There  was  an  English  poet,”  resumed  Kenyon,  turn¬ 
ing  again  towards  the  window,  “  wlio  speaks  of  the 
‘  dim,  religious  light,’  transmitted  through  painted  glass. 
I  always  admired  this  richly  descriptive  phrase  ;  but, 
though  he  was  once  in  Italy,  I  question  whether  Milton 


■:  ,iV 


PICTURED  WINDOWS.* 


89 


ever  saw  any  but  the  dingy  pictures  in  the  dusty  win¬ 
dows  of  English  cathedrals,  imperfectly  shown  by  the 
gray  English  daylight.  He  would  else  liave  illuminated 
that  word  ‘  dim,’  with  some  epithet  that  should  not 
chase  away  the  dimness,  yet  should  make  it  glow  like  a 
million  of  rubies,  sapphires,  emeralds,  and  topazes.  Is 
it  not  so  with  yonder  window  ?  The  pictures  are  most 
brilliant  in  themselves,  yet  dim  with  tenderness  and  rev¬ 
erence,  because  God  himself  is  shining  through  them.” 

“  The  pictures  fill  me  with  emotion,  but  not  such  as 
you  seem  to  experience,”  said  Donatello.  “I  tremble 
at  those  awful  saints;  and,  most  of  all,  at  the  figure 
above  them.  He  glows  with  Divine  wrath  !  ” 

“  My  dear  friend,”  exclaimed  Kenyon,  “  how  strangely 
your  eyes  have  transmuted  the  expression  of  the  figure  ! 
It  is  divine  love,  not  wrath  !  ” 

“  To  my  eyes,”  said  Donatello,  stubbornly,  ‘'it  is  wrath, 
not  love  !  Each  must  interpret  for  himself.” 

The  friends  left  the  church,  and  looking  up  from  the 
exterior,  at  the  window  which  they  had  just  been  con¬ 
templating  within,  nothing  was  visible  but  the  merest 
outline  of  dusky  shapes.  Neither  the  individual  likeness 
of  saint,  angel,  nor  Saviour,  and  far  less  the  combined 
scheme  and  purport  of  the  picture,  could  anywise  be 
made  out.  That  miracle  of  radiant  art,  thus  viewed,  was 
nothing  better  than  an  incomprehensible  obscurity,  with¬ 
out  a  gleam  of  beauty  to  induce  the  beholder  to  attempt 
unravelling  it. 

“  All  this,”  thought  the  sculptor,  “  is  a  most  forcible 
emblem  of  the  different  aspect  of  religious  truth  and 
sacred  story,  as  viewed  from  the  warm  interior  of  belief, 
or  from  its  cold  and  dreary  outside.  Christian  faith  is  a 
grand  cathedral,  with  divinely  pictured  windows.  Stand¬ 
ing  without,  you  see  no  glory,  nor  can  possibly  imagine 


90 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


any ;  standing  within,  every  ray  of  light  reveals  a  har¬ 
mony  of  unspeakable  splendors.” 

After  Kenyon  and  Donatello  emerged  from  the  church, 
however,  they  had  better  opportunity  for  acts  of  charity 
and  mercy  than  for  religious  contemplation;  being  im¬ 
mediately  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  beggars,  who  are 
the  present  possessors  of  Ital}'^,  and  share  the  spoil  of  the 
stranger  with  the  fleas  and  mosquitoes,  their  formidable 
allies.  These  pests  —  the  human  ones  —  had  hunted  the 
two  travellers  at  every  stage  of  their  journey.  Erom 
village  to  village,  ragged  boys  and  girls  kept  almost 
under  the  horses’  feet ;  hoary  grandsires  and  graiidames 
caught  glimpses  of  their  approach,  and  hobbled  to  inter¬ 
cept  them  at  some  point  of  vantage ;  blind  men  stared 
them  out  of  countenance  with  their  sightless  orbs ;  wo¬ 
men  held  up  their  unwashed  babies  ;  cripples  displayed 
their  wooden  legs,  their  grievous  scars,  their  dangling, 
boneless  arms,  their  broken  backs,  their  burden  of  a 
hump,  or  whatever  infirmity  or  deformity  Providence 
had  assigned  them  for  an  inheritance.  On  the  highest 
mountain  summit  —  in  the  most  shadowy  ravine  —  there 
was  a  beggar  waiting  for  them.  In  one  small  village, 
Kenyon  had  the  curiosity  to  count  merely  how  many 
children  were  crying,  whining,  and  bellowing  all  at  once 
for  alms.  They  proved  to  be  more  than  forty  of  as 
ragged  and  dirty  little  imps  as  any  in  the  world  ;  besides 
whom,  all  the  wrinkled  matrons,  and  most  of  the  village 
maids,  and  not  a  few  stalwart  men,  held  out  their  hands 
grimly,  piteously,  or  smilingly,  in  the  forlorn  hope  of 
whatever  trifle  of  coin  might  remain  in  pockets  already 
so  fearfully  taxed.  Had  they  been  permitted,  they  would 
gladly  have  knelt  down  and  worshipped  the  travellers, 
and  have  cursed  them,  without  rising  from  their  knees, 
if  the  expected  boon  failed  to  be  awarded. 


PICTURED  WINDOWS. 


91 


Yet  they  were  not  so  miserably  poor  but  that'  the 
grown  people  kept  houses  over  their  heads.  In  the  way 
of  food,  they  had,  at  least,  vegetables  in  their  little  gar¬ 
dens,  pigs  and  chickens  to  kill,  eggs  to  fry  into  omelets 
with  oil,  wine  to  drink,  and  many  other  things  to  make 
life  comfortable.  As  for  the  children,  when  no  more 
small  com  appeared  to  be  forthcoming,  they  began  to 
laugh  and  play,  and  turn  heels  over  head,  showing  them¬ 
selves  jolly  and  vivacious  brats,  and  evidently  as  well  fed 
as  needs  be.  The  truth  is,  the  Italian  peasantry  look 
upon  strangers  as  the  almoners  of  Providence,  and  there¬ 
fore  feel  no  more  shame  in  asking  and  receiving  alms, 
than  in  availing  themselves  of  providential  bounties  in 
whatever  other  form. 

In  accordance  with  his  nature,  Donatello  was  always 
exceedingly  charitable  to  these  ragged  battalions,  and  ap¬ 
peared  to  derive  a  certain  consolation  from  the  prayers 
which  many  of  them  put  up  in  his  behalf.  In  Italy  a 
copper  coin  of  minute  value  will  often  make  all  the  differ¬ 
ence  between  a  vindictive  curse  —  death  by  apoplexy  being 
the  favorite  one  —  mumbled  in  an  old  witch’s  toothless 
jaws  and  a  prayer  from  the  same  lips,  so  earnest  that 
it  would  seem  to  reward  the  charitable  soul  with  at  least 
a  puff  of  grateful  breath  to  help  him  heavenward.  Good 
wishes  being  so  cheap,  though  possibly  not  very  effica¬ 
cious,  and  anathemas  so  exceedingly  bitter,  —  even  if 
the  greater  portion  of  their  poison  remain  in  the  mouth 
that  utters  them,  —  it  may  be  wise  to  expend  some  rea¬ 
sonable  amount  in  the  purchase  of  the  former.  Don¬ 
atello  invariably  did  so ;  and  as  he  distributed  his  alms 
under  the  pictured  window,  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking,  no  less  than  seven  ancient  women  lifted  their 
hands  and  besought  blessings  on  his  head. 

“  Come,”  said  the  sculptor,  rejoicing  at  the  happier 


92 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


expression  which  he  saw  in  his  friend’s  face,  I  think 
your  steed  will  not  stumble  with  you  to-day.  Each  of 
these  old  dames  looks  as  much  like  Horace’s  Atra  Cura 
as  can  well  be  conceived ;  but,  though  there  are  seven 
of  them,  they  will  make  your  burden  on  horseback  lighter 
instead  of  heavier.” 

“  Are  we  to  ride  far  ?  ”  asked  the  Count. 

“A  tolerable -journey  betwixt  now  and  to-morrow 
noon,”  Kenyon  replied  ;  “  for,  at  that  hour,  I  purpose 
to  be  standing  by  the  Pope’s  statue  in  the  great  square 
of  Perugia.” 


CHAPTER  IX.  . 


MAEKET-DAY  IN  PERUGIA. 


ERTJGIA,  on  its  lofty  liill-top,  was  readied  by 
the  two  travellers  before  the  sun  had  quite 
kissed  away  the  early  freshness  of  the  morning. 
Sinee  midnight,  there  had  been  a  heavy  rain,  bringing  infi¬ 
nite  refreshment  to  the  scene  of  verdure  and  fertility  amid 
which  this  ancient  civilization  stands  ;  insomuch  that  Ken¬ 
yon  loitered,  when  they  came  to  the  gray  city-wall,  and  was 
loath  to  give  up  the  prospect  of  the  sunny  wilderness  that 
lay  below.  It  was  as  green  as  England,  and  bright  as 
Italy  alone.  There  was  the  wide  valley,  sweeping  down 
and  spreading  away  on  all  sides  from  the  weed-grown 
ramparts,  and  bounded  afar  by  mountains,  which  lay 
asleep  in  the  sun,  with  thin  mists  and  silvery  clouds 
floating  about  their  heads  by  way  of  morning  dreams. 

“  It  lacks  still  two  hours  of  noon,”  said  the  sculptor  to 
his  friend,  as  they  stood  under  the  arch  of  the  gateway, 
waiting  for  their  passports  to  be  examined ;  “  will  you 
come  with  me  to  see  some  admirable  frescos  by  Peru- 
gino  ?  There  is  a  hall  in  the  Exchange,  of  no  great 
magnitude,  but  covered  with  what  must  have  been  —  at 
the  time  it  was  painted  —  such  magnificence  and  beauty 
as  the  world  had  not  elsewhere  to  show.” 

“  It  depresses  me  to  look  at  old  frescos,”  responded 


94 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


the  Count ;  “  it  is  a  paiu,  yet  not  enough  of  a  pain  to 
answer  as  a  penance.” 

Will  you  look  at  some  pictures  by  Era  Angelico  in 
the  Church  of  San  Domenico  ?  ”  asked  Kenyon ;  “  they 
are  full  of  religious  sincerity.  When  one  studies  them 
faithfully,  it  is  like  holding  a  conversation  about  heavenly 
things  with  a  tender  and  devout-minded  man.” 

“  You  have  shown  me  some  of  Era  Angelico’s  pictures, 
I  remember,”  answered  Donatello  ;  “  his  angels  look  as 
if  they  had  never  taken  a  flight  out  of  heaven ;  and  his 
saints  seem  to  have  been  born  saints,  and  always  to  have 
lived  so.  Young  maidens,  and  all  innocent  persons,  I 
doubt  not,  may  find  great  delight  and  profit  in  looking  at 
such  holy  pictures.  But  they  are  not  for  me.” 

“  Your  criticism,  I  fancy,  has  great  moral  depth,”  re¬ 
plied  Kenyon ;  “  and  I  see  in  it  the  reason  why  Hilda  so 
highly  appreciates  Era  Angelico’s  pictures.  Well;  we 
will  let  all  such  matters  pass  for  to-day,  and  stroll  about 
this  fine  old  city  till  noon.” 

They  wandered  to  and  fro,  accordingly,  and  lost  them¬ 
selves  among  the  strange,  preci})itate  passages,  which,  in 
Perugia,  are  called  streets.  Some  of  them  are  like  cav¬ 
erns,  being  arched  all  over,  and  plunging  down  abruptly 
towards  an  unknown  darkness ;  which,  when  you  have 
fathomed  its  depths,  admits  you  to  a  daylight  that  you 
scarcely  hoped  to  behold  again.  Here  they  met  shabby 
men,  and  the  careworn  wives  and  mothers  of  the  people, 
some  of  Mdiom  guided  children  in  leading-strings  through 
those  dim  and  antique  thoroughfares,  where  a  hundred 
generations  had  passed  before  the  little  feet  of  to-day 
began  to  tread  them.  Thence  they  climbed  upward 
again,  and  came  to  the  level  plateau,  on  the  summit  of 
the  hill,  where  are  situated  the  grand  piazza  and  the  prin¬ 
cipal  public  edifices. 


MARKET-DAY  IN  PERUGIA. 


95 


It  happened  to  be  market-day  in  Perugia.  The  great 
square,  therefore,  presented  a  far  more  vivacious  spec¬ 
tacle  than  would  have  been  witnessed  in  it  at  any  other 
time  of  the  week,  though  not  so  lively  as  to  overcome  the 
gray  solemnity  of  the  architectural  portion  of  the  scene. 
In  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral  and  other  old  Gothic 
structures  —  seeking  shelter  from  the  sunshine  that  fell 
across  the  rest  of  the  piazza  —  was  a  crowd  of  people, 
engaged  as  buyers  or  sellers  in  the  petty  traffic  of  a 
country-fair.  Dealers  had  erected  booths  and  stalls  on 
the  pavement,  and  overspread  them  with  scanty  awnings, 
beneath  which  they  stood,  vociferously  crying  their  mer¬ 
chandise  ;  such  as  shoes,  hats  and  caps,  yarn  stockings, 
cheap  jewelry  and  cutlery,  books,  chiefly  little  volumes 
of  a  religious  character,  and  a  few  French  novels ;  toys, 
tin-ware,  old  iron,  cloth,  rosaries  of  beads,  crucifixes, 
cakes,  biscuits,  sugar-plums,  and  innumerable  little  odds 
and  ends,  which  we  see  no  object  in  advertising.  Bas¬ 
kets  of  grapes,  figs,  and  pears  stood  on  the  ground. 
Donkej's,  bearing  panniers  stuffed  out  with  kitchen  vege¬ 
tables,  and  requiring  an  ample  j*oadway,  roughly  shoul¬ 
dered  aside  the  throng. 

Crowded  as  the  square  was,  a  juggler  found  room  to 
spread  out  a  white  cloth  upon  the  pavement,  and  covet 
it  with  cups,  plates,  balls,  cards,  —  the  whole  material 
of  his  magic,  in  short,  —  wherewith  he  proceeded  to  work 
miracles  under  the  noonday  sun.  An  organ-grinder  at 
one  point,  and  a  clarion  and  a  flute  at  another,  accom¬ 
plished  what  they  could  towards  fllling  the  wide  space 
with  tuneful  noise.  Their  small  uproar,  however,  was 
nearly  drowned  by  the  multitudinous  voices  of  the 
people,  bargaining,  quarrelling,  laughing,  and  babbling 
copiously  at  random ;  for  the  briskness  of  the  mountain 
atmosphere,  or  some  other  cause,  made  everybody  so 


BOMANCE  or  MONTE  BENI. 


96  ' 

loquacious,  that  more  words  were  wasted  in  Perugia  on 
this  one  market-day,  than  the  noisiest  piazza  of  Pome 
would  utter  in  a  month. 

Through  all  this  petty  tumult,  which  kept  beguiling 
one’s  eyes  and  upper  strata  of  thought,  it  was  delightful 
to  catch  glimpses  of  the  grand  old  architecture  that  stood 
around  the  square.  The  life  of  the  flitting  moment,  ex¬ 
isting  in  the  antique  shell  of  an  age  gone  by,  has  a  fasci¬ 
nation  which  we  do  not  find  in  either  the  past  or  present, 
taken  by  themselves.  It  might  seem  irreverent  to  make 
the  gray  cathedral  and  the  tall,  time-worn  palaces  echo 
back  the  exuberant  vociferation  of  the  market ;  but  they 
did  so,  and  caused  the  sound  to  assume  a  kind  of  poetic 
rhythm,  and  themselves  looked  only  the  more  majestic 
for  their  condescension. 

On  one  side,  there  was  an  immense  edifice  devoted  to 
public  purposes,  with  an  antique  gallery,  and  a  range  of 
arched  and  stone-mullioned  windows,  running  along  its 
front ;  and  by  way  of  entrance  it  had  a  central  Gothic 
arch,  elaborately  wreathed  around  with  sculptured  semi¬ 
circles,  within  which  the.spectator  was  aware  of  a  stately 
and  impressive  gloom.  Though  merely  the  municipal 
council-house  and  exchange  of  a  decayed  country  town, 
this  structure  was  worthy  to  have  held  in  one  portion 
of  it  the  parliament-hall  of  a  nation,  and  in  the  other, 
the  state  apartments  of  its  ruler.  On  another  side  of  the 
square  rose  the  mediaeval  front  of  the  cathedral,  where 
the  imagination  of  a  Gothic  architect  had  long  ago  flow¬ 
ered  out  indestructibly,  achieving,  in  the  first  place,  a 
grand  design,  and  then  covering  it  with  such  abundant 
detail  of  ornament,  that  the  magnitude  of  the  work 
seemed  less  a  miracle  than  its  minuteness.  You  would 
suppose  that  he  must  have  softened  the  stone  into  wax, 
until  his  most  delicate  fancies  were  modelled  in  the  pli- 


MARKET-DAY  IN  PERUGIA. 


97 


ant  material,  and  then  had  hardened  it  into  stone  again. 
The  whole  was  a  vast,  black-letter  page  of  the  richest 
and  quaintest  poetry.  In  fit  keeping  with  all  this  old 
magnificence  was  a  great  marble  fountain,  where  again 
the  Gothic  imagination  showed  its  overflow  and  gratuity 
of  device  in  the  manifold  sculptures  which  it  lavished  as 
freely  as  the  w'ater  did  its  shifting  shapes. 

Besides  the  two  venerable  structures  which  we  have 
described,  there  were  lofty  palaces,  perhaps  of  as  old  a 
date,  rising  story  above  story,  and  adorned  with  balconies, 
whence,  hundreds  of  years  ago,  the  princely  occupants 
had  been  accustomed  to  gaze  down  at  the  sports,  business, 
and  popular  assemblages  of  the  piazza.  And,  beyond  all 
question,  they  thus  v/itnessed  the  erection  of  a  bronze 
statue,  which,  three  centuries  since,  was  placed  on  the 
pedestal  that  it  still  occupies. 

I  never  come  to  Perugia,”  said  Kenyon,  “  without 
spending  as  much  time  as  I  can  spare  in  studying  yonder 
statue  of  Pope  Julius  the  Third.  Those  sculptors  of  the 
middle  age  have  fitter  lessons  for  the  professors  of  my 
art  than  we  can  find  in  the  Grecian  masterpieces.  They 
belong  to  our  Christian  civilization ;  and,  being  earnest 
works,  they  always  express  something  which  we  do  not 
get  from  the  antique.  Will  you  look  at  it  ?  ” 

“  Willingly,”  replied  the  Count,  “  for  I  see,  even  so 
far  off,  that  the  statue  is  bestowing  a  benediction,  and 
lliere  is  a  feeling  in  ray  heart  that  I  may  be  permitted  to 
share  it.” 

Bemembering  the  similar  idea  which  Miriam  a  short 
time  before  had  expressed,  the  sculptor  smiled  hopefully 
at  the  coincidence.  They  made  their  way  through  the 
throng  of  the  market-place,  and  approached  close  to  the 
iron  railing  that  protected  the  pedestal  of  the  statue. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  pope,  arrayed  in  his  pontifical 
VOL.  II.  5  G 


98 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


robes,  and  crowned  with  the  tiara.  He  sat  in  a  bronze 
chair,  elevated  high  above  the  pavement,  and  seemed  to 
take  kindly  yet  authoritative  cognizance  of  the  busy  scene 
which  was  at  that  moment  passing  before  his  eye.  His 
right  hand  was  raised  and  spread  abroad,  as  if  in  the  act 
of  shedding  forth  a  benediction,  which  every  man  —  so 
broad,  so  wise,  and  so  serenely  affectionate  was  the  bronze 
pope’s  regard  —  might  hope  to  feel  quietly  descending 
upon  the  need,  or  the  distress,  that  he  had  closest  at  his 
heart.  The  statue  had  life  and  observation  in  it,  as  well 
as  patriarchal  majesty.  An  imaginative  spectator  could 
not  but  be  impressed  with  the  idea  that  this  benignly 
awful  representative  of  divine  and  human  authority  might 
rise  from  his  brazen  chair,  should  any  great  public  exi¬ 
gency  demand  his  interposition,  and  encourage  or  restrain 
the  people  by  his  gesture,  or  even  by  prophetic  utterances 
worthy  of  so  grand  a  presence. 

And,  in  the  long,  calm  intervals,  amid  the  quiet  lapse 
of  ages,  the  pontiff  watched  the  daily  turmoil  around  his 
seat,  listening  with  majestic  patience  to  the  market  cries, 
and  all  the  petty  uproar  that  awoke  the  echoes  of  the 
stately  old  piazza.  He  was  the  enduring  friend  of  these 
men,  and  of  their  forefathers  and  children,  —  the  familiar 
face  of  generations. 

“  The  pope’s  blessing,  methinks,  has  fallen  upon  you,” 
observed  the  sculptor,  looking  at  his  friend. 

In  truth,  Donatello’s  countenance  indicated  a  healthier 
spirit  than  while  he  was  brooding  in  his  melancholy  tower. 
The  change  of  scene,  the  breaking  up  of  custom,  the  fresh 
flow  of  incidents,  the  sense  of  being  homeless,  and  there¬ 
fore  free,  had  done  something  for  our  poor  Faun ;  these 
circumstances  had  at  least  promoted  a  reaction,  which 
might  else  have  been  slower  in  its  progress.  Then,  no 
doubt,  the  bright  day,  the  gay  spectacle  of  the  market- 


MARKET-DAY  IN  PERUGIA. 


99 


place,  and  the  sympathetic  exhilaration  of  so  many  people’s 
cheerfulness,  had  each  their  suitable  effect  on  a  temper 
naturally  prone  to  be  glad.  Perhaps,  too,  he  was  mag¬ 
netically  conscious  of  a  presence  that  formerly  sufficed 
to  make  him  happy.  Be  the  cause  what  it  might,  Dona¬ 
tello’s  eyes  shone  with  a  serene  and  hopeful  expression 
while  looking  upward  at  the  bronze  pope,  to  whose  widely 
diffused  blessing,  it  may  be,  he  attributed  all  this  good 
influence. 

“  Yes,  my  dear  friend,”  said  he,  in  reply  to  the  sculp¬ 
tor’s  remark,  “  I  feel  the  blessing  upon  my  spirit.” 

“  It  is  wonderful,”  said  Kenyon,  with  a  smile,  “  won¬ 
derful  and  delightful  to  think  how  long  a  good  man’s 
beneficence  may  be  potent,  even  after  his  death.  How 
great,  then,  must  have  been  the  efficacy  of  this  excellent 
pontiff’s  blessing  while  he  was  alive  !  ” 

“  I  have  heard,”  remarked  the  Count,  “  that  there  was 
a  brazen  image  set  up  in  the  wilderness,  the  sight  of 
which  healed  the  Israelites  of  their  poisonous  and  rank¬ 
ling  wounds.  If  it  be  the  Blessed  Virgin’s  pleasure,  why 
should  not  this  holy  image  before  us  do  me  equal  good  ? 
A  wound  has  long  been  rankling  in  my  soul,  and  filling  it 
with  poison.” 

“  I  did  wrong  to  smile,”  answered  Kenyon.  ‘‘  It  is 
not  for  me  to  limit  Providence  in  its  operations  on  man’s 
spirit.” 

While  they  stood  talking,  the  clock  in  the  neighboring 
cathedral  told  the  hour,  with  twelve  reverberating  strokes, 
which  it  flung  down  upon  the  crowded  market-place,  as 
if  warning  one  and  all  to  take  advantage  of  the  bronze 
pontiff’s  benediction,  or  of  Heaven’s  blessing,  however 
proffered,  before  the  opportunity  were  lost. 

“High  noon,”  said  the  sculptor.  “It  is  Miriam’s 
hour ! ” 


CHAPTEE  X. 

THE  BRONZE  PONTIFF’S  BENEDICTION. 

HEN  the  last  of  the  twelve  strokes  had  fallen 
from  the  cathedral’ elock,  Kenyon  threw  his 
eyes  over  the  busy  scene  of  the  market-place, 
expecting  to  discern  Miriam  somewhere  in  the  crowd. 
He  looked  next  towards  the  cathedral  itself,  where  it  was 
reasonable  to  imagine  that  she  might  have  taken  shelter, 
while  awaiting  her  appointed  time.  Seeing  no  trace  of 
her  in  either  direction,  his  eyes  came  back  from  their 
quest  somewhat  disappointed,  and  rested  on  a  figure 
which  was  leaning,  like  Donatello  and  himself,  on  the 
iron  balustrade  that  surrounded  the  statue.  Only  a 
moment  before,  they  two  had  been  alone. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  woman,  with  her  head  bowed 
on  her  hands,  as  if  she  deeply  felt  —  what  we  have  been 
endeavoring  to  convey  into  our  feeble  description — the 
benign  and  awe-inspiring  influence  which  the  pontiff’s 
statue  exercises  upon  a  sensitive  spectator.  No  matter 
though  it  were  modelled  for  a  Catholic  chief  priest,  the 
desolate  heart,  whatever  be  its  religion,  recognizes  in  that 
image  the  likeness  of  a  father. 

“  Miriam,”  said  the  sculptor,  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice, 
is  it  yourself  ?  ” 


THE  BRONZE  PONTIFF’S  BENEDICTION.  101 


“  It  is  I,”  she  replied ;  “  I  am  faithful  to  my  engage¬ 
ment,  though  with  many  fears.” 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  revealed  to  Kenyon  —  revealed 
to  Donatello  likewise  —  the  well-remembered  features  of 
Miriam.  They  were  pale  and  worn,  but  distinguished 
even  now,  though  less  gorgeously,  by  a  beauty  that  might 
be  imagined  bright  enough  to  glimmer  with  its  own  light 
in  a  dim  eathedral  aisle,  and  had  no  need  to  shrink  from 
the  severer  test  of  the  midday  sun.  But  she  seemed 
tremulous,  and  hardly  able  to  go  through  with  a  seene 
which  at  a  distance  she  had  found  courage  to  under¬ 
take. 

“  You  are  most  welcome,  Miriam  !  ”  said  the  sculptor, 
seeking  to  afford  her  the  encouragement  which  he  saw 
she  so  greatly  required.  “  1  have  a  hopeful  trust  that 
the  result  of  this  interview  will  be  propitious.  Come ; 
let  me  lead  you  to  Donatello.” 

No,  Kenyon,  no !  ”  whispered  Miriam,  shrinking 
back  ;  “  unless  of  his  own  accord  he  speaks  my  name,  — 
unless  he  bids  me  stay,  —  no  word  shall  ever  pass  between 
him  and  me.  It  is  not  that  I  take  upon  me  to  be  proud 
at  this  late  hour.  Among  other  feminine  qualities,  I 
threw  away  my  pride  when  Hilda  cast  me  off.” 

“  If  not  pride,  what  else  restrains  you  ?  ”  Kenyon 
asked,  a  little  angry  at  her  unseasonable  scruples,  and 
also  at  this  half-complaining  reference  to  Hilda’s  just 
severity.  “  After  daring  so  much,  it  is  no  time  for  fear  ! 
If  we  let  him  part  from  you  without  a  word,  your  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  doing  him  inestimable  good  is  lost  forever.” 

“  True ;  it  will  be  lost  forever  !  ”  repeated  Miriam, 
sadly.  “  But,  dear  friend,  will  it  be  my  fault  ?  I  will¬ 
ingly  fling  my  woman’s  pride  at  his  feet.  But  —  do  you 
not  see  ?  —  his  heart  must  be  left  freely  to  its  own  decis¬ 
ion  whether  to  recognize  me,  because  on  his  voluntary 


10:^ 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


choice  depends  the  Mdiole  question  whether  my  devotion 
will  do  him  good  or  harm.  Except  he  feel  an  infinite 
need  of  me,  I  am  a  burden  and  fatal  obstruction  to  him  !  ’’ 
Take  your  own  course,  then,  Miriam,”  said  Kenyon ; 
and  doubtless,  the  crisis  being  what  it  is,  your  spirit  is 
better  instructed  for  its  emergencies  than  mine.” 

While  the  foregoing  words  passed  between  them  they 
had  withdrawn  a  little  from  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
statue,  so  as  to  be  out  of  Donatello’s  hearing.  Still,  how¬ 
ever,  they  were  beneath  the  pontiff’s  outstretched  hand  ; 
and  Miriam,  with  her  beauty  and  her  sorrow,  looked  up 
into  his  benignant  face,  as  if  she  had  come  thither  for 
his  pardon  and  paternal  affection,  and  despaired  of  so 
vast  a  boon. 

Meanwhile,  she  had  not  stood  thus  long  in  the  public 
square  of  Perugia,  without  attracting  the  observation  of 
many  eyes.  With  their  quick  sense  of  beauty,  these 
Italians  had  recognized  her  loveliness,  and  spared  not  to 
take  their  fill  of  gazing  at  it ;  though  their  native  gentle¬ 
ness  and  courtesy  made  their  homage  far  less  obtrusive 
than  that  of  Germans,  Erench,  or  Anglo-Saxons  might 
have  been.  It  is  not  improbable  that  Miriam  had  planned 
this  momentous  interview,  on  so  public  a  spot  and  at  high 
noon,  with  an  eye  to  the  sort  of  protection  that  would  be 
thrown  over  it  by  a  multitude  of  eye-witnesses.  In  cir¬ 
cumstances  of  profound  feeling  and  passion,  there  is  often 
a  sense  that  too  great  a  seclusion  cannot  be  endured ; 
there  is  an  indefinite  dread  of  being  quite  alone  with  the 
object  of  our  deepest  interest.  The  species  of  solitude 
that  a  crowd  harbors  within  itself,  is  felt  to  be  preferable, 
in  certain  conditions  of  the  heart,  to  the  remoteness  of 
a  desert  or  the  depths  of  an  untrodden  wood.  Hatred, 
love,  or  whatever  kind  of  too  intense  emotion,  or  even 
indifference,  where  emotion  has  once  been,  instinctively 


'  THE  BEONZE  PONTIFF’S  BENEDICTION.  103 

seeks  to  interpose  some  barrier  between  itself  and  tlie 
corresponding  passion  in  another  breast.  This,  we  sus¬ 
pect,  was  what  Miriam  had  thought  of,  in  coming  to  the 
thronged  piazza;  partly  this,  and  partly,  as  she  said,  her 
superstition  that  the  benign  statue  held  good  influences 
in  store. 

But  Donatello  remained  leaning  against  the  balustrade. 
She  dared  not  glance  towards  him,  to  see  whether  he 
were  pale  and  agitated,  or  calm  as  ice.  Only,  she  knew 
that  the  moments  were  fleetly  lapsing  away,  and  that  his 
heart  must  call  her  soon,  or  the  voice  would  never  reach 
her.  She  turned  quite  away  from  him  and  spoke  again 
to  the  sculptor. 

“  I  have  wished  to  meet  you,”  said  she,  “  for  more 
than  one  reason.  News  has  come  to  me  respecting  a 
dear  friend  of  ours.  Nay,  not  of  mine !  I  dare  not  call 
her  a  friend  of  mine,  though  once  the  dearest.” 

“  Do  you  speak  of  Hilda  ?  ”  exclaimed  Kenyon,  with 
quick  alarm.  “Has  anything  befallen  her?  When  I 
last  heard  of  her,  she  was  still  in  Rome,  and  well.” 

“  Hilda  remains  in  Rome,”  replied  Miriam,  “  nor  is 
she  ill  as  regards  physical  health,  though  much  depressed 
in  spirits.  She  lives  quite  alone  in  her  dove-cote  ;  not  a 
friend  near  her,  not  one  in  Rome,  which,  you  know,  is 
deserted  by  all  but  its  native  inhabitants.  I  fear  for  her 
health,  if  she  continue  long  in  such  solitude,  with  de¬ 
spondency  preying  on  her  mind.  I  tell  you  this,  knowing 
the  interest  wducli  the  rare  beauty  of  her  character  has 
awakened  in  you.” 

“  I  will  go  to  Roms  !  ”  said  the  sculptor,  in  great  emo¬ 
tion.  “Hilda  has  never  allowed  me  to  manifest  more 
than  a  friendly  regard  ;  but,  at  least,  she  cannot  prevent 
my  watching  over  her  at  a  humble  distance.  I  will  set 
out  this  very  hour.” 


104 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Do  not  leave  us  now  !  ”  whispered  Miriam,  implor¬ 
ingly,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  “  One  moment 
more  !  Ah  ;  he  has  no  word  for  me  !  ” 

“  Miriam  !  ”  said  Donatello. 

Though  but  a  single  word,  and  the  first  that  he  had 
spoken,  its  tone  was  a  warrant  of  the  sad  and  tender 
depth  from  which  it  came.  It  told  Miriam  things  of  in¬ 
finite  importance,  and,  first  of  all,  that  he  still  loved  her. 
The  sense  of  their  mutual  crime  had  stunned,  but  not 
destroyed  the  vitality  of  his  affection ;  it  was  therefore 
indestructible.  That  tone,  too,  bespoke  an  altered  and 
deepened  character ;  it  told  of  a  vivified  intellect,  and  of 
spiritual  instruction  tliat  had  come  through  sorrow  and 
remorse ;  so  that  instead  of  the  wild  boy,  the  thing  of 
sportive,  animal  nature,  the  sylvan  Eaun,  here  was  now 
the  man  of  feeling  and  intelligence. 

She  turned  towards  him,  while  his  voice  still  reverber¬ 
ated  in  the  depths  of  her  soul. 

“  You  have  called  me  !  ”  said  she. 

“  Because  my  deepest  heart  has  need  of  you !  ”  he  re¬ 
plied.  “Eorgive,  Miriam,  the  coldness,  the  hardness 
with  which  I  parted  from  you  !  I  was  bewildered  with 
strange  horror  and  gloom.” 

“  Alas  !  and  it  was  I  that  brought  it  on  you,”  said  she. 
“  What  repentance,  what  self-sacrifice,  can  atone  for  that 
infinite  wrong  ?  There  was  something  so  sacred  in  the 
innocent  and  joyous  life  which  you  were  leading !  A 
happy  person  is  such  an  unaccustomed  and  holy  creature, 
in  this  sad  world !  And,  encountering  so  rare  a  being, 
and  gifted  with  the  power  of  sympathy  with  liis  sunny 
life,  it  was  my  doom,  mine,  to  bring  him  within  the  limits 
of  sinful,  sorrowful  mortality  !  Bid  me  depart,  Dona¬ 
tello!  Eling  me  off!  No  good,  through  my  agency, 
can  follow  upon  such  a  mighty  evil !  ” 


THE  BRONZE  PONTIFF’S  BENEDICTION.  105 

“Miriam,”  said  lie,  our  lot  lies  together.  Is  it  not 
so  ?  Tell  me,  in  Heaven’s  name,  if  it  be  otherwise  ?  ” 

Donatello’s  conscience  was  evidently  perplexed  with 
doubt,  whether  the  communion  of  a  crime,  such  as  they 
two  were  jointly  stained  with,  ought  not  to  stifle  all  the 
instinctive  motions  of  their  hearts,  impelling  them  one 
towards  the  other.  Miriam,  on  the  other  hand,  remorse¬ 
fully  questioned  with  herself,  whether  the  misery,  already 
accruing  from  her  influence,  should  not  warn  her  to  with¬ 
draw  from  his  path.  In  this  momentous  interview,  there¬ 
fore,  two  souls  were  groping  for  each  other  in  the  dark¬ 
ness  of  guilt  and  sorrow,  and  hardly  were  bold  enough 
to  grasp  the  cold  hands  that  they  found. 

The  sculptor  stood  watching  the  scene  with  earnest 
sympathy. 

“It  seems  irreverent,”  said  he,  at  length;  “intrusive, 
if  not  irreverent,  for  a  third  person  to  thrust  himself 
between  the  two  solely  concerned  in  a  crisis  like  the 
present.  Yet,  possibly  as  a  by-stander,  though  a  deeply 
interested  one,  I  may  discern  somewhat  of  truth  that  is 
hidden  from  you  both;  nay,  at  least  interpret  or  suggest 
some  ideas  which  you  might  not  so  readily  convey  to 
each  other.” 

“  Speak  !  ”  said  Miriam  ;  “  we  conflde  in  you.” 

“  Speak  !  ”  said  Donatello.  “  You  are  true  and  up- 
riglit.” 

“  I  well  know,”  rejoined  Kenyon,  “  that  I  shall  not 
succeed  in  uttering  the  few,  deep  words  which,  in  this 
matter,  as  in  all  others,  include  the  absolute  truth.  But, 
here,  Miriam,  is  one  whom  a  terrible  misfortune  has 
begun  to  educate ;  it  has  taken  him,  and  through  your 
agency,  out  of  a  wild  and  happy  state,  which,  within  cir¬ 
cumscribed  limits,  gave  him  joys  that  he  cannot  else¬ 
where  find  on  earth.  On  his  behalf,  you  have  incurred 
5* 


106 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


a  responsibility  which  you  cannot  fling  aside.  And  here, 
Donatello,  is  one  whom  Providence  marks  out  as  inti¬ 
mately  connected  with  your  destiny.  The  mysterious 
process,  by  which  our  earthly  life  instructs  us  for  another 
state  of  being,  was  begun  for  you  by  her.  She  has  rich 
gifts  of  heart  and  mind,  a  suggestive  power,  a  magnetic 
influence,  a  sympathetic  knowledge,  which,  wisely  and 
religiously  exercised,  are  what  your  condition  needs. 
She  possesses  what  you  require,  and,  with  utter  self-de¬ 
votion,  will  use  it  for  your  good.  The  bond  betwixt  you, 
therefore,  is  a  true  one,  and  never  —  except  by  Heaven’s 
own  act  —  should  be  rent  asunder.” 

“  Ah ;  he  has  spoken  the  truth !  ”  cried  Donatello, 
grasping  Miriam’s  hand. 

“  The  very  truth,  dear  friend,”  cried  Miriam. 

“  But  take  heed,”  resumed  the  sculptor,  anxious  not  to 
violate  the  integrity  of  his  own  conscience,  —  “  take  heed ; 
for  you  love  one  another,  and  yet  your  bond  is  twined 
with  such  black  threads,  that  you  must  never  look  upon  it 
as  identical  with  the  ties  that  unite  other  loving  souls.  It 
is  for  mutual  support ;  it  is  for  one  another’s  final  good ; 
it  is  for  effort,  for  sacrifice,  but  not  for  earthly  happiness. 
If  such  be  your  motive,  believe  me,  friends,  it  were  bet¬ 
ter  to  relinquish  each  other’s  hands  at  this  sad  moment. 
There  would  be  no  holy  sanction  on  your  wedded  life.” 

“None,”  said  Donatello,  shuddering.  “We  know  it 
well.” 

“  None,”  repeated  Miriam,  also  shuddering.  “  United 
—  miserably  entangled  with  me,  rather  - —  by  a  bond  of 
guilt,  our  union  might  be  for  eternity,  indeed,  and  most 
intimate ;  but,  through  all  that  endless  duration,  I  should 
be  conscious  of  his  horror.” 

“Not  for  earthly  bliss,  therefore,”  said  Kenyon,  “but 
for  mutual  elevation,  and  encouragement  towards  a  severe 


THE  BllONZE  PONTIFF’S  BENEDICTION.  107 


and  painful  life,  you  take  each  other’s  hands.  And  if, 
out  of  toil,  sacrifice,  prayer,  penitence,  and  earnest  effort 
towards  right  things,  there  comes,  at  length,  a  sombre 
and  thoughtful  happiness,  taste  it,  and  thank  Heaven ! 
So  that  you  live  not  for  it,  — so  that  it  be  a  wayside  flower, 
springing  along  a  path  that  leads  to  higlier  ends,  —  it  will 
be  Heaven’s  gracious  gift,  and  a  token  that  it  recognizes 
your  union  here  below.” 

“  Have  you  no  more  to  say  ?  ”  asked  Miriam,  earnestly. 
“  There  is  matter  of  sorrow  and  lofty  consolation  strangely 
mingled  in  your  words.” 

“  Only  this,  dear  Miriam,”  said  the  sculptor ;  “  if  ever 
in  your  lives,  the  highest  duty  should  require  from  either 
of  you  the  sacrifice  of  the  other,  meet  the  occasion  with¬ 
out  shrinking.  This  is  all.” 

While  Kenyon  spoke,  Donatello  had  evidently  taken  in 
the  ideas  whicli  he  propounded,  and  had  ennobled  them 
by  the  sincerity  of  his  reception.  His  aspect  uncon¬ 
sciously  assumed  a  dignity,  which,  elevating  his  former 
beauty,  accorded  with  the  change  that  had  long  been 
taking  place  in  his  interior  self.  He  was  a  man,  revolv¬ 
ing  grave  and  deep  thoughts  in  his  breast.  He  still  held 
Miriam’s  hand ;  and  there  they  stood,  the  beautiful  man, 
the  beautiful  woman,  united  forever,  as  they  felt,  in  the 
presence  of  these  thousand  eye-witnesses,  who  gazed  so 
curiously  at  the  unintelligible  scene.  Doubtless,  the 
crowd  recognized  them  as  lovers,  and  fancied  this  a  be¬ 
trothal  that  was  destined  to  result  in  life-long  happiness. 
And,  possibly,  it  might  be  so.  Who  can  tell  where  hap¬ 
piness  may  come ;  or  where,  though  an  expected  guest,  it 
may  never  show  its  face?  Perhaps  —  shy,  subtle  thing 
—  it  had  crept  into  this  sad  marriage-bond,  when  the 
partners  would  have  trembled  at  its  presence  as  a  crime. 

“Farewell!  ”  said  Kenyon,  “  I  go  to  Rome.” 


108 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  Farewell,  true  friend  !  ”  said  Miriam. 

“  Farewell !  ”  said  Donatello  too.  “  May  you  be  bappy. 
You  have  no  guilt  to  make  you  shrink  from  happiness.” 

At  this  moment  it  so  chanced  that  all  the  three  friends 
by  one  impulse  glanced  upward  at  the  statue  of  Pope 
Julius;  and  there  was  the  majestic  figure  stretching  out 
the  hand  of  benediction  over  them,  and  bending  down 
upon  this  guilty  and  repentant  pair  its  visage  of  grand 
benignity.  There  is  a  singular  effect  oftentimes  when, 
out  of  the  midst  of  engrossing  thought  and  deep  absorp¬ 
tion,  we  suddenly  look  up,  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  external 
objects.  We  seem  at  such  moments  to  look  farther  and 
deeper  into  them,  than  by  any  premeditated  observation ; 
it  is  as  if  they  met  our  eyes  alive,  and  with  all  their  hid¬ 
den  meaning  on  the  surface,  but  grew  again  inanimate 
and  inscrutable  the  instant  that  they  became  aware  of  our 
glances.  So  now  at  that  unexpected  glimpse,  Miriam, 
Donatello,  and  the  sculptor,  all  tliree  imagined  that  they 
beheld  the  bronze  pontiff  endowed  with  spiritual  life. 
A  blessing  was  felt  descending  upon  them  from  his 
ontstretched  hand;  he  approved  by  look  and  gesture 
the  pledge  of  a  deep  union  that  had  passed  under  his 
auspices. 


CHAPTEE  XL 

HILDA’S  TOWEE. 


rlEN  we  have  once  known  Eome,  and  left  her 
where  she  lies,  like  a  long-decaying  corpse, 
retaining  a  trace  of  the  noble  shape  it  was,  but 
with  accumulated  dust  and  a  fungous  growth  overspread¬ 
ing  all  its  more  admirable  features,  —  left  her  in  utter 
weariness,  no  doubt,  of  her  narrow,  crooked,  intricate 
streets,  so  uncomfortably  paved  with  little  squares  of  lava 
that  to  tread  over  them  is  a  penitential  pilgrimage,  so 
indescribably  ugly,  moreover,  so  cold,  so  alley-like,  into 
which  the  sun  never  falls,  and  where  a  chill  wind  forces 
its  deadly  breath  into  our  lungs,  —  left  her,  tired  of  the 
sight  of  those  immense  seven-storied,  yellow  -  washed 
hovels,  or  call  them  palaces,  where  all  that  is  dreary  in 
domestic  life  seems  magnified  and  multiplied,  and  weary 
of  climbing  those  staircases,  which  ascend  from  a  ground- 
floor  of  cook-shops,  cobblers’  stalls,  stables,  and  regiments 
of  cavalry,  to  a  middle  region  of  princes,  cardinals,  and 
ambassadors,  and  an  upper  tier  of  artists,  just  beneath 
the  unattainable  sky,  —  left  hgr,  worn  out  with  shivering 
at  the  cheerless  and  smoky  fireside  by  day,  and  feasting 
with  our  own  substance  the  ravenous  little  populace  of  a 
Roman  bed  at  night,  —  left  her,  sick  at  heart  of  Italian 


110 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


trickery,  wliicli  lias  uprooted  whatever  faith  iu  man’s  in¬ 
tegrity  had  endured  till  now,  and  sick  at  stomach  of  sour 
bread,  sour  wine,  rancid  butter,  and  bad  cookery,  need¬ 
lessly  bestowed  on  evil  meats,  —  left  her,  disgusted  with 
the  pretence  of  holiness  and  the  reality  of  nastiness,  each 
equally  omnipresent,  —  left  her,  half  lifeless  from  the  lan¬ 
guid  atmosphere,  the  vital  principle  of  which  has  been 
used  up  long  ago,  or  corrupted  by  myriads  of  slaughters, 
—  left  her,  crushed  down  in  spirit  with  the  desolation  of 
her  ruin,  and  the  hopelessness  of  her  future,  —  left  her, 
in  short,  hating  her  with  all  our  might,  and  adding  our 
individual  curse  to  the  infinite  anathema  wdiich  her  old 
crimes  have  unmistakably  brought  down,  —  when  we  liave 
left  Rome  in  such  mood  as  this,  we  are  astonished  by  the 
discovery,  by  and  by,  that  our  heartstrings  have  myste¬ 
riously  attached  themselves  to  the  Eternal  City,  and  are 
drawing  us  thitherward  again,  as  if  it  were  more  familiar, 
more  intimately  our  home,  than  even  the  spot  where  we 
were  born. 

It  is  with  a  kindred  sentiment,  that  we  now  follow  the 
course  of  our  story  back  through  the  Elaminian  Gate, 
and,  treading  our  way  to  the  Via  Portoghese,  climb  the 
staircase  to  the  upper  chamber  of  the  tow^er,  where  we 
last  saw  Hilda. 

Hilda  all  along  intended  to  pass  the  summer  in  Rome ; 
for  she  had  laid  out  many  high  and  delightful  tasks,  which 
she  could  the  better  complete  while  her  favorite  haunts 
were  deserted  by  the  multitude  that  thronged  them, 
throughout  the  winter  and  early  spring.  Nor  did  she 
dread  the  summer  atmosphere,  although  generally  held 
to  be  so  pestilential.  Siie  had  already  made  trial  of  It, 
two  years  before,  and  found  no  worse  effect  than  a  kind 
of  dreamy  languor,  which  was  dissipated  by  the  first  cool 
breezes  that  came  with  autumn.  The  thickl}'  populated 


HILDA’S  TOWER. 


Ill 


centre  of  tlie  eity,  indeed,  is  never  affected  by  the  feverish 
influence  tliat  lies  in  wait  in  the  Canipagna,  like  a  be¬ 
sieging  foe,  and  nightly  haunts  those  beautiful  lawns  and 
woodlands,  around  the  suburban  villas,  just  at  the  season 
when  they  most  resemble  Paradise.  What  the  flaming 
sword  was  to  the  flrst  Eden,  such  is  the  malaria  to  these 
sweet  gardens  and  groves.  We  may  wander  through 
them,  of  an  afternoon,  it  is  true,  but  they  cannot  be  made 
a  home  and  a  reality,  and  to  sleep  among  them  is  death. 
They  are  but  illusions,  therefore,  like  the  show  of  gleam¬ 
ing  waters  and  shadowy  foliage  in  a  desert. 

But  Borne,  within  the  walls,  at  this  dreaded  season, 
enjoys  its  festal  days,  and  makes  itself  merry  with  char¬ 
acteristic  and  hereditary  pastimes,  for  which  its  broad 
piazzas  afford  abundant  room.  It  leads  its  own  life  with 
a  freer  spirit,  now  that  the  artists  and  foreign  visitors  are 
scattered  abroad.  No  bloom,  perhaps,  would  be  visible 
in  a  cheek  that  should  be  unvisited,  throughout  the  sum¬ 
mer,  by  more  invigorating  winds  than  any  within  fifty 
miles  of  the  city ;  no  bloom,  but  yet,  if  the  mind  kept 
its  healthy  energy,  a  subdued  and  colorless  well-being. 
There  was  consequently  little  risk  in  Hilda’s  purpose  to 
pass  the  summer  days  in  the  galleries  of  Boman  pal¬ 
aces,  and  her  nights  in  that  aerial  chamber,  whither  the 
heavy  breath  of  the  city  and  its  suburbs  could  not  aspire. 
It  would  probably  harm  her  no  more  than  it  did  the  while 
doves,  who  sought  the  same  high  atmosphere  at  sunset, 
and,  when  morning  came,  flew  down  into  the  narrow 
streets,  about  their  daily  business,  as  Hilda  likewise  did. 

With  the  Virgin’s  aid  and  blessing,  which  might  be 
hoped  for  even  by  a  heretic,  who  so  religiously  lit  the 
lamp  before  her  shrine,  the  New  England  girl  would  sleep 
securely  in  her  old  Boman  tower,  and  go  forth  on  her 
pictorial  pilgrimages  without  dread  or  peril.  In  view  of 


112 


EOMANCE  OP  MONTE  BENI. 


such  a  summer,  Hilda  had  anticipated  many  montlis  of 
lonely,  but  unalloyed  enjoyment.  Not  that  she  had  a 
churlish  disinclination  to  society,  or  needed  to  be  told  that 
we  taste  one  intellectual  pleasure  twice,  and  with  double 
the  result,  when  we  taste  it  with  a  friend.  But,  keeping 
a  maiden  heart  within  her  bosom,  she  rejoiced  in  the 
freedom  that  enabled  her  still  to  choose  her  own  sphere, 
and  dwell  in  it,  if  she  pleased,  without  another  inmate. 

Her  expectation,  however,  of  a  delightful  summer  was 
wofully  disappointed.  Even  had  she  formed  no  previous 
plan  of  remaining  there,  it  is  improbable  that  Hilda 
would  have  gathered  energy  to  stir  from  Borne.  A  tor¬ 
por,  heretofore  unknown  to  her  vivacious  though  quiet 
temperament,  had  possessed  itself  of  the  poor  girl,  like  a 
half-dead  serpent  knotting  its  cold,  inextricable  wreaths 
about  her  limbs.  It  was  that  peculiar  despair,  that  chill 
and  heavy  misery,  which  only  the  innocent  can  experi¬ 
ence,  although  it  possesses  many  of  the  gloomy  character¬ 
istics  that  mark  a  sense  of  guilt.  It  was  that  heart-sick¬ 
ness,  which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  we  may  all  of  us  have  been 
pure  enough  to  feel,  once  in  our  lives,  but  the  capacity 
for  which  is  usually  exhausted  early,  and  perhaps  with  a 
single  agony.  It  was  that  dismal  certainty  of  the  exist¬ 
ence  of  evil  in  the  world,  which,  though  we  may  fancy 
ourselves  fully  assured  of  the  sad  mystery  long  before, 
never  becomes  a  portion  of  our  practical  belief  until  it 
takes  substance  and  reality  from  the  sin  of  some  guide, 
whom  we  have  deeply  trusted  and  revered,  or  some  friend 
whom  we  have  dearly  loved. 

When  that  knowledge  comes,  it  is  as  if  a  cloud  had 
suddenly  gathered  over  the  morning  light;  so  dark  a 
cloud,  that  there  seems  to  be  no  longer  any  sunshine 
behind  it  or  above  it.  The  character  of  our  individual 
beloved  one  having  invested  itself  with  all  the  attributes 


HILDA’S  TOWER. 


113 


of  riglit,  —  that  one  friend  being  to  us  the  symbol  and  rep¬ 
resentative  of  whatever  is  good  and  true,  —  when  he  falls, 
the  effect  is  almost  as  if  the  sky  fell  with  him,  bringing 
down  in  chaotic  .ruin  the  columns  that  upheld  our  faith. 
We  struggle  forth  again,  no  doubt,  bruised  and  bewil¬ 
dered.  We  stare  wildly  about  us,  and  discover  —  or,  it 
may  be,  we  never  make  the  discovery  —  that  it  was  not 
actually  the  sky  that  has  tumbled  down,  but  merely  a 
frail  structure  of  our  own  rearing,  which  never  rose 
higher  than  the  house-tops,  and  has  fallen  because  we 
founded  it  on  nothing.  But  the  crash,  and  the  affright 
and  trouble,  are  as  overwhelming,  for  the  time,  as  if  the 
catastrophe  involved  the  whole  moral  world.  Uemem- 
bering  these  things,  let  them  suggest  one  generous  mo¬ 
tive  for  walking  heedfully  amid  the  defilement  of  earthly 
ways !  Let  us  reflect,  that  the  highest  path  is  pointed 
out  by  the  pure  Ideal  of  those  who  look  up  to  us,  and 
who,  if  we  tread  less  loftily,  may  never  look  so  high 
again. 

Hilda’s  situation  was  made  infinitely  more  wretched  by 
the  necessity  of  confining  all  her  trouble  within  her  own 
consciousness.  To  this  innocent  girl,  holding  the  knowl¬ 
edge  of  Miriam’s  crime  within  her  tender  and  delicate 
soul,  the  effect  was  almost  the  same  as  if  she  herself  had 
participated  in  the  guilt.  Indeed,  partaking  the  human 
nature  of  those  who  could  perpetrate  such  deeds,  she  felt 
her  own  spotlessness  impugned. 

Had  there  been  but  a  single  friend,  —  or,  not  a  friend, 
since  friends  were  no  longer  to  be  confided  in,  after 
Miriam  had  betrayed  her  trust,  —  but,  had  there  been  any 
calm,  wise  mind,  any  sympathizing  intelligence ;  or,  if 
not  these,  any  dull,  half-listening  ear  into  which  she  miglit 
have  flung  the  dreadful  secret,  as  into  an  echoless  cavern, 
—  what  a  relief  would  have  ensued  !  But  this  awful 


II 


114 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


loneliness  !  It  enveloped  her  whithersoever  she  went. 
It  was  a  shadow  in  the  sunshine  of  festal  days  ;  a  mist 
between  her  eyes  and  the  pictures  at  which  she  strove  to 
look ;  a  chill  dungeon,  which  kept  her  in  its  gray  twilight 
and  fed  her  with  its  unwholesome  air,  fit  only  for  a  crim¬ 
inal  to  breathe  and  pine  in  !  She  could  not  escape  from 
it.  In  the  effort  to  do  so,  straying  farther  into  the  intri¬ 
cate  passages  of  our  nature,  she  stumbled,  ever  and  again, 
over  this  deadly  idea  of  mortal  guilt. 

Poor  sufferer  for  another’s  sin  !  Poor  wellspring  of  a 
virgin’s  heart,  into  which  a  murdered  corpse  had  casually 
fallen,  and  whence  it  could  not  be  drawn  forth  again, 
but  lay  there,  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  tainting 
its  sweet  atmosphere  with  the  scent  of  crime  and  ugly 
death ! 

The  strange  sorrow  that  had  befallen  Hilda  did  not 
fail  to  impress  its  mysterious  seal  upon  her  face,  and  to 
make  itself  perceptible  to  sensitive  observers  in  her  man¬ 
ner  and  carriage.  A  young  Italian  artist,  who  frequented 
the  same  galleries  which  Hilda  haunted,  grew  deeply  in¬ 
terested  in  her  expression.  One  day,  while  she  stood 
before  Leonardo  da  Vinci’s  picture  of  Joanna  of  Aragon, 
but  evidently  without  seeing  it,  —  for,  though  it  had  at¬ 
tracted  her  eyes,  a  fancied  resemblance  to  Miriam  had 
immediately  dranm  away  her  thoughts,  —  this  artist  drew 
a  hasty  sketch  which  he  afterwards  elaborated  into  a 
finished  portrait.  It  represented  Hilda  as  gazing  with 
sad  and  earnest  horror  at  a  blood-spot  which  she  seemed 
just  then  to  have  discovered  on  her  white  robe.  The 
picture  attracted  considerable  notice.  Copies  of  an  en¬ 
graving  from  it  may  still  be  found  in  the  print-shops 
along  the  Corso.  By  many  connoisseurs,  the  idea  of  the 
face  was  supposed  to  have  been  suggested  by  the  portrait 
of  Beatrice  Cenci ;  and,  in  fact,  there  was  a  look  some- 


HILDA’S  TOWEH. 


115 


wliat  similar  to  poor  Beatrice’s  ‘forlorn  gaze  out  of  the 
dreary  isolation  and  remoteness,  in  which  a  terrible  doom 
had  involved  a  tender  soul.  But  the  modern  artist 
strenuously  upheld  the  originality  of  his  own  picture,  as 
well  as  the  stainless  purity  of  its  subject,  and  chose  to 
call  it  —  and  was  lauglied  at  for  his  pains  —  “  Innocence, 
dying  of  a  blood-stain  !  ” 

“  Your  picture.  Signor  Panini,  does  you  credit,”  re¬ 
marked  the  picture-dealer,  who  had  bought  it  of  the 
young  man  for  fifteen  scudi,  and  afterwards  sold  it  for  ten 
times  the  sum ;  “  but  it  would  be  worth  a  better  price  if 
you  had  given  it  a  more  intelligible  title.  Looking  at 
the  face  and  expression  of  this  fair  signorina,  we  seem  to 
comprehend  readily  enough,  that  she  is  undergoing  one 
or  another  of  those  troubles  of  the  heart  to  which  young 
ladies  are  but  too  liable.  But  what  is  this  blood-stain  ? 
And  what  has  innocence  to  do  with  it  ?  Has  she  stabbed 
her  perfidious  lover  with  a  bodkin  ?  ” 

“  She  !  she  commit  a  crime  !  ”  cried  the  young  artist. 
“  Can  you  look  at  the  innocent  anguish  in  her  face,  and 
ask  that  question  ?  No  ;  but,  as  I  read  the  mystery,  a 
man  has  been  slain  in  her  presence,  and  the  blood,  spurt¬ 
ing  accidentally  on  her  white  robe,  has  made  a  stain 
which  eats  into  her  life.” 

“  Then,  in  the  name  of  her  patron  saint,”  exclaimed 
the  picture-dealer,  “why  don’t  she  get  the  robe  made 
white  again  at  the  expense  of  a  few  baiocclii  to  her 
washer-woman  ?  No,  no,  my  dear  Panini.  The  picture 
being  now  my  property,  I  shall  call  it  ‘  The  Signorina’s 
Vengeance.’  She  has  stabbed  her  lover  overnight,  and 
is  repenting  it  betimes  the  next  morning.  So  interpreted, 
the  pieture  becomes  an  intelligible  and  very  natural  rep¬ 
resentation  of  a  not  uncommon  fact.” 

Thus  coarsely  does  the  world  translate  all  finer  griefs 


116 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


that  meet  its  eye.  It  is  more  a  coarse  world  than  an 
unkind  one. 

But  Hilda  sought  nothing  either  from  the  world’s  deli¬ 
cacy  or  its  pity,  and  never  dreamed  of  its  misinterpreta¬ 
tions.  Her  doves  often  flew  in  through  the  windows  of 
the  tower,  winged  messengers,  bringing  her  what  sym¬ 
pathy  they  could,  and  uttering  soft,  tender,  and  complain¬ 
ing  sounds,  deep  in  their  bosoms,  which  soothed  the  girl 
more  than  a  distincter  utterance  might.  And  sometimes 
Hilda  moaned  quietly  among  the  doves,  teaching  her 
voice  to  accord  with  theirs,  and  thus  finding  a  temporary 
relief  from  the  burden  of  her  incommunicable  sorrow,  as 
if  a  little  portion  of  it,  at  least,  had  been  told  to  these 
innocent  friends,  and  been  understood  and  pitied. 

When  she  trimmed  the  lamp  before  the  Virgin’s  shrine, 
Hilda  gazed  at  the  sacred  image,  and,  rude  as  was  the 
workmanship,  beheld,  or  fancied,  expressed  with  the 
quaint,  powerful  simplicity  which  sculptors  sometimes 
had  five  hundred  years  ago,  a  woman’s  tenderness  re¬ 
sponding  to  her  gaze.  If  she  knelt,  if  she  prayed,  if  her 
oppressed  heart  besought  the  sympathy  of  divine  woman¬ 
hood  afar  in  bliss,  but  not  remote,  because  forever  hu¬ 
manized  by  the  memory  of  mortal  griefs,  was  Hilda  to 
be  blamed  ?  It  was  not  a  Catholic  kneeling  at  an  idola¬ 
trous  shrine,  but  a  child  lifting  its  tear-stained  face  to 
seek  comfort  from  a  mother. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  EMPTINESS  OF  PICTURE-GALLERIES. 

ILHA  descended,'  day  by  day,  from  lier  dove¬ 
cote,  and  went  to  one  or  another  of  the  great, 
old  palaces,  —  the  Para  fill  Doria,  the  Corsini, 
the  Sciarra,  the  Borghese,  the  Colonna,  —  where  the 
doorkeepers  knew  her  well,  and  offered  her  a  kindly 
greeting.  But  they  shook  their  heads  and  sighed,  on 
observing  the  languid  step  with  which  the  poor  girl 
toiled  up  the  grand  marble  staircases.  There  was  no 
more  of  that  cheery  alacrity  with  which  she  used  to  flit 
upward,  as  if  her  doves  had  lent  her  their  wings,  nor  of 
that  glow  of  happy  spirits  which  had  been  wont  to  set 
the  tarnished  gilding  of  the  picture-frames  and  the  shabby 
splendor  of  the  furniture  all  a-glimmer,  as  she  hastened 
to  her  congenial  and  delightful  toil-. 

An  old  German  artist,  whom  she  often  met  in  the 
galleries,  once  laid  a  paternal  hand  on  Hilda’s  head, 
and  bade  her  go  back  to  her  own  country. 

“  Go  back  soon,”  he  said,  with  kindly  freedom  and 
directness,  “  or  you  will  go  never  more.  And,  if  you 
go  not,  why,  at  least,  do  you  spend  the  whole  summer¬ 
time  in  Rome  ?  The  air  has  been  breathed  too  often,  in 
so  many  thousand  years,  and  is  not  wholesome  for  a  little 


118 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


foreign  flower  like  you,  my  child,  a  delicate  wood-anemone 
from  the  western  forest-land.” 

“I  have  no  task  nor  duty  anywhere  but  here,”  replied 
Hilda.  “  The  old  masters  will  not  set  me  free  !  ” 

“  Ah,  those  old  masters  !  ”  cried  the  veteran  artist, 
shaking  his  head.  “They  are  a  tyrannous  race!  You 
-  will  find  them  of  too  mighty  a  spirit  to  be  dealt  with,  for 
long  together,  by  the  slender  hand,  the  fragile  mind,  and 
ilie  delicate  heart,  of  a  young  girl.  Remember  that 
Raphael’s  genius  wore  out  that  divinest  painter  before 
half  his  life  was  lived.  Since  you  feel  his  influence  pow¬ 
erfully  enough  to  reproduce  his  miracles  so  well,  it  will 
assuredly  consume  you  like  a  flame.” 

“That  might  have  been  my  peril  once,”  answered 
Hilda.  “It  is  not  so  now.” 

“  Yes,  fair  maiden,  you  stand  in  that  peril  now !  ”  in¬ 
sisted  the  kind  old  man;  and  he  added,  smiling,  yet  in 
a  melancholy  vein,  and  with  a  German  grotesqueness  of 
idea,  “  Some  fine  morning,  I  shall  come  to  the  Pina- 
cotheca  of  the  Yatican,  with  my  palette  and  my  brushes, 
and  shall  look  for  my  little  American  artist  that  sees  into 
the  very  heart  of  the  grand  pictures  1  And  what  shall 
I  behold  ?  A  heap  of  white  ashes  on  the  marble  floor, 
just  in  front  of  the  divine  Raphael’s  picture  of  the  Ma¬ 
donna  da  Poligno  !  Nothing  more,  upon  my  word !  The 
fire,  which  the  poor  child  feels  so  fervently,  will  have 
gone  into  her  innermost,  and  burnt  her  quite  up  !  ” 

“  It  would  be  a  happy  martyrdom  !  ”  said  Hilda,  faintly 
smiling.  “  But  I  am  far  from  being  worthy  of  it.  What 
troubles  me  much,  among  other  troubles,  is  quite  the 
reverse  of  what  you  think.  The  old  masters  hold  me 
here,  it  is  true,  but  they  no  longer  warm  me  with  their 
influence.  It  is  not  flame  consuming,  but  torpor  chilling 
me,  that  helps  to  make  me  wretched.” 


"/* 


//  i 


THE  EMPTINESS  OE  PICTURE-GALLERIES.  119 


“Perchance,  then,”  said  the  German,  looking  keenly 
at  her,  “  Raphael  has  a  rival  in  your  heart  ?  He  was 
your  first-love ;  but  young  maidens  are  not  always  con¬ 
stant,  and  one  flame  is  sometimes  extinguished  by  an¬ 
other  !  ” 

Hilda  shook  her  head,  and  turned  away. 

She  had  spoken  the  truth,  however,  in  alleging  that 
torpor,  rather  than  fire,  was  what  she  had  now  to  dread. 
In  those  gloomy  days  that  had  befallen  her,  it  was  a 
great  additional  calamity  that  she  felt  conscious  of  the 
present  dimness  of  an  insight,  which  she  once  possessed 
in  more  than  ordinary  measure.  She  had  lost  —  and  she 
trembled  lest  it  should  have  departed  forever  —  the  fac¬ 
ulty  of  appreciating  those  great  works  of  art,  which  here¬ 
tofore  had  made  so  large  a  portion  of  her  happiness.  It 
was  no  wonder. 

A  picture,  however  admirable  the  painter’s  art,  and 
wonderful  his  power,  requires  of  the  spectator  a  sur¬ 
render  of  himself,  in  due  proportion  with  the  miracle 
which  has  been  wrought.  Let  the  canvas  glow  as  it 
may,  you  must  look  with  the  eye  of  faith,  or  its  highest 
excellence  escapes  you.  There  is  always  the  necessity 
of  helping  out  the  painter’s  art  with  your  own  resources 
of  sensibility  and  imagination.  Not  that  these  qualities 
shall  really  add  anything  to  what  the  master  has  effected ; 
but  they  must  be  put  so  entirely  under  his  control,  and 
work  along  with  him  to  such  an  extent,  that,  in  a  differ¬ 
ent  mood,  when  you  are  cold  and  critical,  instead  of  sym- 
])athetic,  you  will  be  apt  to  fancy  that  the  loftier  merits 
of  the  picture  were  of  your  own  dreaming,  not  of  his 
creating. 

Like  all  revelations  of  the  better  life,  the  adequate 
perception  of  a  great  work  of  art  demands  a  gifted  sim¬ 
plicity  of  vision.  In  this,  and  in  her  self-surrender,  and 


120 


HOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


the  depth  and  tenderness  of  her  sympatlij,  had  lain 
Hilda’s  remarkable  power  as  a  copyist  of  the  old  mas¬ 
ters.  And  now  that  her  capacity  of  emotion  was  choked 
up  with  a  horrible  experience,  it  inevitably  followed  that 
she  should  seek  in  vain,  among  those  friends  so  venerated 
and  beloved,  for  the  marvels  wliich  they  had  heretofore 
shown  her.  In  spite  of  a  reverence  that  lingered  longer 
than  her  recognition,  their  poor  worshipper  became  almost 
an  infidel,  and  sometimes  doubted  whether  the  pictorial 
art  be  not  altogether  a  delusion. 

Eor  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Hilda  now  grew  ac¬ 
quainted  with  that  icy  demon  of  weariness,  who  haunts 
great  picture-galleries.  He  is  a  plausible  Mephistophe- 
les,  and  possesses  the  magic  that  is  the  destruction  of 
all  other  magic.  He  annihilates  color,  warmth,  and, 
more  especially,  sentiment  and  passion,  at  a  touch.  If 
he  spare  anything,  it  will  be  some  such  matter  as  an 
earthen  pipkin,  or  a  bunch  of  herrings  by  Teniers ;  a 
brass  kettle,  in  which  you  can  see  your  face,  by  Gerard 
Douw ;  a  furred  robe,  or  the  silken  texture  of  a  mantle, 
or  a  straw  hat,  by  Van  Mieris;  or  a  long-stalked  wine¬ 
glass,  transparent  and  full  of  shifting  reflection,  or  a  bit 
of  bread  and  cheese,  or  an  over-ripe  peach,  with  a  fly 
upon  it,  truer  than  reality  itself,  by  the  school  of  Dutch 
conjurers.  These  men,  and  a  few  Tlemings,  whispers 
the  wicked  demon,  were  the  only  painters.  The  mighty 
Italian  masters,  as  you  deem  them,  were  not  human,  nor 
addressed  their  work  to  human  sympathies,  but  to  a  false 
intellectual  taste,  which  they  themselves  were  the  first 
to  create.  Well  might  they  call  their  doings  “art,”  for 
they  substituted  art  instead  of  nature.  Their  fashion  is 
past,  and  ought,  indeed,  to  have  died  and  been  buried 
along  with  them. 

Then  there  is  such  a  terrible  lack  of  variety  in  their 


THE  EMPTINESS  OF  PICTURE-GALLERIES.  121 

subjects.  The  churchmen,  tlieir  great  patrons,  suggested 
most  ot‘  their  themes,  and  a  dead  mythology  the  rest.  A 
quarter-part,  probably,  of  any  large  collection  of  pictures, 
consists  of  Virgins  and  infant  Christs,  repeated  over  and 
over  again  in  pretty  much  an  identical  spirit,  and  gener¬ 
ally  with  no  more  mixture  of  the  Divine  than  just  enough 
to  spoil  them  as  representations  of  maternity  and  child¬ 
hood,  with  which  everybody’s  heart  might  have  some¬ 
thing  to  do.  Half  of  the  other  pictures  are  Magdalens, 
Flights  into  Egypt,  Crucifixions,  Depositions  from  the 
Cross,  Pietas,  Noli-me-tangeres,  or  the  Sacrifice  of  Abra¬ 
ham,  or  martyrdoms  of  saints,  originally  painted  as  altar- 
pieces,  or  for  the  shrines  of  chapels,  and  wofully  lacking 
the  accompaniments  which  the  artist  had  in  view. 

The  remainder  of  the  gallery  comprises  mythological 
subjects,  such  as  nude  Venuses,  Ledas,  Graces,  and,  in 
short,  a  general  apotheosis  of  nudity,  once  fresh  and  rosy 
perhaps,  but  yellow  and  dingy  in  our  day,  and  retaining 
only  a  traditionary  charm.  These  impure  pictures  are 
from  the  same  illustrious  and  impious  hands  that  ad¬ 
ventured  to  call  before  us  the  august  forms  of  Apostles 
and  Saints,  the  Blessed  Mother  of  the  Redeemer,  and 
her  Son,  at  his  death,  and  in  his  glory,  and  even  the 
awfulness  of  Him  to  whom  the  martyrs,  dead  a  thousand 
years  ago,  have  not  yet  dared  to  raise  their  eyes.  They 
seem  to  take  up  one  task  or  the  other — the  disrobed 
woman  whom  they  call  Venus,  or  the  type  of  highest  and 
tenderest  womanhood  in  the  mother  of  their  Saviour  — • 
with  equal  readiness,  but  to  achieve  the  former  with  far 
more  satisfactory  success.  If  an  artist  sometimes  pro¬ 
duced  a  picture  of  the  Virgin,  possessing  warmth  enough 
to  excite  devotional  feelings,  it  was  probably  the  object 
of  his  earthly  love  to  whom  he  thus  paid  the  stupendous 
and  fearfid  homage  of  setting  up  her  portrait  to  be  wor- 

VOL.  II.  6 


122 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


shipped,  not  figuratively  as  a  mortal,  but  by  religious  souls 
in  their  earnest  aspirations  towards  Divinity.  And  who 
can  trust  the  religious  sentiment  of  Raphael,  or  receive 
any  of  his  Virgins  as  heaven-descended  likenesses,  after 
seeing,  for  example,  the  Rornarina  of  the  Barberini  pal¬ 
ace,  and  feeling  how  sensual  the  artist  must  have  been  to 
paint  such  a  brazen  trollop  of  his  own  accord,  and  lov¬ 
ingly  ?  Would  the  Blessed  Mary  reveal  herself  to  his 
spiritual  vision,  and  favor  him  with  sittings  alternately 
with  that  type  of  glowing  earthliness,  the  Rornarina  ? 

But  no  sooner  have  we  given  expression  to  this  irrev¬ 
erent  criticism,  than  a  throng  of  spiritual  faces  look  re¬ 
proachfully  upon  us.  We  see  cherubs  by  Raphael,  whose 
baby-innocence  could  only  have  been  nursed  in  paradise  ; 
angels  by  Raphael  as  innocent  as  they,  but  whose  serene 
intelligence  embraces  both  earthly  and  celestial  things ; 
madonnas  by  Raphael,  on  whose  lips  he  has  impressed  a 
holy  and  delicate  reserve,  implying  sanctity  on  earth,  and 
into  whose  soft  eyes  he  has  thrown  a  light  which  he  never 
could  have  imagined  except  by  raising  his  own  eyes  with 
a  pure  aspiration  heavenward.  We  remember,  too,  that 
divinest  countenance  in  the  Transfiguration,  and  with¬ 
draw  all  that  we  have  said. 

Poor  Hilda,  however,  in  her  gloomiest  moments,  was 
never  guilty  of  the  high  treason  suggested  in  the  above 
remarks  against  her  beloved  and  honored  Raphael,  She 
had  a  faculty  (which,  fortunately  for  themselves,  pure 
women  often  have)  of  ignoring  all  moral  blotches  in  a 
character  that  won  her  admiration.  She  purified  the  ob¬ 
jects  of  her  regard  by  the  mere  act  of  turning  such  spot¬ 
less  eyes  upon  them. 

Hilda’s  despondency,  nevertheless,  while  it  dulled  her 
perceptions  in  one  respect,  had  deepened  them  in  an¬ 
other;  she  saw  beauty  less  vividly,  but  felt  truth,  or 


f 


- — 


THE  EMPTINESS  OP  PICTURE-GALLERIES.  123 


the  lack  of  it,  more  profoundly.  She  began  to  suspect 
that  some,  at  least,  of  her  venerated  painters,  had  left  an 
inevitable  hollowness  in  their  works,  because,  in  the  most 
renowned  of  them,  they  essayed  to  express  to  the  world 
what  they  had  not  in  their  own  souls.  They  deified  their 
light  and  wandering  affections,  and  were  continually  play¬ 
ing  off  the  tremendous  jest,  alluded  to  above,  of  offering 
file  features  of  some  venal  beauty  to  be  enshrined  in  the 
holiest  places.  A  deficiency  of  earnestness  and  absolute 
truth  is  generally  discoverable  in  Italian  pictures,  after 
the  art  had  become  consummate.  When  you  demand 
what  is  deepest,  these  painters  have  not  wherewithal  to 
respond.  They  substituted  a  keen  intellectual  percep¬ 
tion,  and  a  marvellous  knack  of  external  arrangement, 
instead  of  the  live  sympathy  and  sentiment  which  should 
have  been  their  inspiration.  And  hence  it  happens,  that 
shallow  and  worldly  men  are  among  the  best  critics  of 
their  works;  a  taste  for  pictorial  art  is  often  no  more 
than  a  polish  upon  the  hard  enamel  of  an  artificial  char¬ 
acter.  Hilda  had  lavished  her  whole  heart  upon  it,  and 
found  (just  as  if  she  had  lavished  it  upon  a  human  idol) 
that  the  greater  part  was  thrown  away. 

For  some  of  the  earlier  painters,  however,  she  still  re¬ 
tained  much  of  her  former  reverence.  Fra  Angelico,  she 
felt,  must  have  breathed  a  humble  aspiration  between 
every  two  touches  of  his  brush,  in  order  to  have  made 
the  finished  picture  such  a  visible  prayer  as  we  behold  it, 
in  the  guise  of  a  prim  angel,  or  a  saint  without  the  human 
nature.  Through  all  these  dusky  centuries,  his  works 
may  still  help  a  struggling  heart  to  pray.  Perugino  was 
evidently  a  devout  man ;  and  the  Virgin  therefore  revealed 
herself  to  him  in  loftier  and  sweeter  faces  of  celestial 
womanhood,  and  yet  with  a  kind  of  homeliness  in  their  hu¬ 
man  mould,  than  even  the  genius  of  Raphael  could  imagine. 


1-24 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


Sodoma,  beyond  a  question,  both  prayed  and  wept,  while 
painting  his  fresco,  at  Siena,  of  Clirist  bound  to  a  pillar. 

In  her  present  need  and  hunger  for  a  spiritual  reve¬ 
lation,  Hilda  felt  a  vast  and  weary  longing  to  see  this 
last-mentioned  picture  once  again.  It  is  inexpressibly 
touching.  So  weary  is  the  Saviour,  and  utterly  worn 
out  with  agony,  that  his  lips  have  fallen  apart  from  mere 
exhaustion  ;  his  eyes  seem  to  be  set ;  he  tries  to  lean  his 
head  against  the  pillar,  but  is  kept  from  sinking  down 
upon  the  ground  only  by  the  cords  that  bind  him.  One 
of  the  most  striking  effects  produced  is  the  sense  of  lone¬ 
liness.  You  behold  Christ  deserted  both  in  heaven  and 
earth ;  that  despair  is  in  him  which  wrung  forth  the  sad¬ 
dest  utterance  man  ever  made,  “  Why  hast  Thou  forsaken 
me  ?  ”  Even  in  this  extremity,  however,  he  is  still  divine. 
The  great  and  reverent  painter  has  not  suffered  the  Son 
of  God  to  be  merely  an  object  of  pity,  though  depicting 
him  in  a  state  so  profoundly  pitiful.  He  is  rescued  from 
it,  we  know  not  how,  —  by  nothing  less  than  miracle,  — 
by  a  celestial  majesty  and  beauty,  and  some  quality  of 
which  these  are  tlie  outward  garniture.  He  is  as  much, 
and  as  visibly,  our  Redeemer,  there  bound,  there  fainting, 
and  bleeding  from  the  scourge,  with  the  cross  in  view,  as 
if  he  sat  on  his  throne  of  glory  in  the  heavens  !  Sodoma, 
in  this  matchless  picture,  has  done  more  towards  recon¬ 
ciling  the  incongruity  of  Divine  Omnipotence  and  out¬ 
raged,  suffering  Humanity,  combined  in  one  person,  than 
the  theologians  ever  did. 

This  hallowed  work  of  genius  shows  what  pictorial  art, 
devoutly  exercised,  might  effect  in  behalf  of  religious 
truth ;  involving,  as  it  does,  deeper  mysteries  of  revela¬ 
tion,  and  bringing  them  closer  to  man’s  heart,  and  making 
him  tenderer  to  be  impressed  by  them,  than  the  most 
eloquent  words  of  preacher  or  prophet. 


THE  EMPTINESS  OF  PICTURE-GALLERIES.  125 


It  is  not  of  pictures  like  the  above,  that  galleries,  in 
Rome  or  elsewhere,  are  made  up,  but  of  productions  im¬ 
measurably  below  them,  and  requiring  to  be  appreciated 
by  a  very  different  frame  of  mind.  Eew  amateurs  are 
endowed  with  a  tender  susceptibility  to  the  sentiment  of 
a  picture ;  they  are  not  won  from  an  evil  life,  nor  any¬ 
wise  morally  improved  by  it.  The  love  of  art,  therefore, 
differs  widely  in  its  influence  from  the  love  of  nature ; 
whereas,  if  art  had  not  strayed  away  from  its  legitimate 
paths  and  aims,  it  ought  to  soften  and  sweeten  the  lives 
of  its  worshippers,  in  even  a  more  exquisite  degree  than 
the  contemplation  of  natural  objects.  But,  of  its  own 
potency  it  has  no  such  effect ;  and  it  fails,  likewise,  in  that 
other  test  of  its  moral  value  which  poor  Hilda  was  now 
involuntarily  trying  upon  it.  It  cannot  comfort  the  heart 
in  affliction ;  it  grows  dim  when  the  shadow  is  upon  us. 

So  the  melaneholy  girl  wandered  through  those  long 
galleries,  and  over  the  mosaie  pavements  of  vast,  solitary 
saloons,  wondering  what  had  become  of  the  splendor  that 
used  to  beam  upon  her  from  the  walls.  She  grew  sadly 
critical,  and  condemned  almost  everything  that  she  was 
wont  to  admire.  Heretofore,  her  sympathy  went  deeply 
into  a  picture,  yet  seemed  to  leave  a  depth  which  it  was 
inadequate  to  sound ;  now,  on  the  contrary,  her  percep¬ 
tive  faculty  penetrated  the  canvas  like  a  steel  probe,  and 
found  but  a  crust  of  paint  over  an  emptiness.  Not  that 
she  gave  up  all  art  as  worthless ;  only  it  had  lost  its  con¬ 
secration.  One  picture  in  ten  thousand,  perhaps,  ought 
to  live  in  the  applause  of  mankind,  from  generation  to 
generation,  until  the  colors  fade  and  blacken  out  of  sight, 
or  the  canvas  rot  entirely  away.  For  the  rest,  let  them 
be  piled  in  garrets,  just  as  the  tolerable  poets  are  shelved, 
when  their  little  day  is  over.  Is  a  painter  more  sacred 
than  a  poet  ? 


126 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


And  as  for  these  galleries  of  Roman  palaees,  they  were 
to  Hilda,  —  though  she  still  trod  them  with  the  forlorn 
hope  of  getting  back  her  sympathies, — they  were  drear¬ 
ier  than  tlie  whitewashed  walls  of  a  prison  corridor.  If 
a  magnificent  palace  were  founded,  as  was  generally  the 
case,  on  hardened  guilt  and  a  stony  conscience,  —  if  the 
prince  or  cardinal  who  stole  the  marble  of  his  vast  man¬ 
sion  from  the  Coliseum,  or  some  Roman  temple,  had  per¬ 
petrated  still  deadlier  crimes,  as  probably  he  did,  —  there 
could  be  no  fitter  punishment  for  his  ghost  than  to  wander 
perpetually  through  these  long  suites  of  rooms,  over  the 
cold  marble  or  mosaic  of  the  floors,  growing  chiller  at 
every  eternal  footstep.  Taney  the  progenitor  of  the  Do- 
rias  thus  haunting  those  heavy  halls  where  his  posterity 
reside !  Nor  would  it  assuage  his  monotonous  misery, 
but  increase  it  manifold,  to  be  compelled  to  scrutinize 
those  masterpieces  of  art,  which  he  collected  with  so 
much  cost  and  care,  and  gazing  at  them  unintelligently, 
still  leave  a  further  portion  of  his  vital  warmth  at  every 
one. 

Such,  or  of  a  similar  kind,  is  the  torment  of  those  who 
seek  to  enjoy  pictures  in  an  uncongenial  mood.  Every 
haunter  of  picture-galleries,  we  should  imagine,  must  have 
experienced  it,  in  greater  or  less  degree ;  Hilda  never  till 
now,  but  now  most  bitterly. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  in  her  lengthened  absence, 
comprising  so  many  years  of  her  young  life,  she  began  to 
be  acquainted  with  the  exile’s  pain.  Her  pictorial  im¬ 
agination  brought  up  vivid  scenes  of  her  native  village, 
with  its  great,  old  elm-trees ;  and  the  neat,  comfortable 
houses,  scattered  along  the  wide,  grassy  margin  of  its 
street,  and  the  white  meeting-house,  and  her  mother’s 
very  door,  and  the  stream  of  gold-brown  water,  which 
her  taste  for  color  had  kept  flowing,  all  this  while,  through 


THE  EMPTINESS  OF  PICTURE-GALLERIES.  127 

her  remembrance.  O,  dreary  streets,  palaces,  churches, 
and  imperial  sepulchres  of  hot  and  dusty  Rome,  with  the 
muddy  Tiber  eddying  through  the  midst,  instead  of  the 
gold-brown  rivulet !  How  she  pined  under  this  crumbly 
magnificence,  as  if  it  were  piled  all  upon  her  human 
heart !  How  she  yearned  for  that  native  homeliness, 
those  familiar  sights,  those  faces  which  she  had  known 
always,  those  days  that  never  brought  any  strange  event; 
that  life  of  sober  week-days,  and  a  solemn  sabbath  at  the 
close !  The  peculiar  fragrance  of  a  flower-bed,  which 
Hilda  used  to  cultivate,  came  freshly  to  her  memory, 
across  the  windy  sea,  and  through  the  long  years  since 
the  flowers  had  withered.  Her  heart  grew  faint  at  the 
hundred  reminiscences  that  were  awakened  by  that  re¬ 
membered  smell  of  dead  blossoms ;  it  was  like  opening  a 
drawer,  where  many  things  were  laid  away,  and  every 
one  of  them  scented  with  lavender  and  dried  rose-leaves. 

We  ought  not  to  betray  Hilda’s  secret;  but  it  is  the 
truth,  that  being  so  sad,  and  so  utterly  alone,  and  in  such 
great  need  of  sympathy,  her  thoughts  sometimes  recurred 
to  the  sculptor.  Had  she  met  him  now,  her  heart,  indeed, 
might  not  have  been  won,  but  her  confidence  would  have 
flown  to  him  like  a  bird  to  its  nest.  One  summer  after¬ 
noon,  especially,  Hilda  leaned  upon  the  battlements  of 
her  tower,  and  looked  over  Rome  towards  the  distant 
mountains,  whither  Kenyon  had  told  her  that  he  was 
going. 

“  O,  that  he  were  here  !  ”  she  sighed ;  “  I  perish  under 
this  terrible  secret ;  and  he  might  help  me  to  endure  it. 
0,  that  he  were  here  !  ” 

That  very  afternoon,  as  the  reader  may  remember, 
Kenyon  felt  Hilda’s  hand  pulling  at  the  silken  cord  that 
was  connected  with  his  heartstrings,  as  he  stood  looking 
towards  Rome  from  the  battlements  of  Monte  Beni. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


ALTARS  AND  INCENSE. 

;E  lias  a  certain  species  of  consolation  readier 
hand,  for  all  the  necessitous,  than  any  other 
ot  under  the  sky ;  and  Hilda’s  despondent 
state  made  her  peculiarly  liable  to  the  peril,  if  peril  it 
can  justly  be  termed,  of  seeking,  or  consenting,  to  be 
thus  consoled. 

Had  the  Jesuits  known  the  situation  of  this  troubled 
heart,  her  inheritance  of  New  England  Puritanism  would 
hardly  have  protected  the  poor  girl  from  the  pious  strat¬ 
egy  of  those  good  fathers.  Knowing,  as  they  do,  how  to 
work  each  proper  engine,  it  would  have  been  ultimately 
impossible  for  Hilda  to  resist  the  attractions  of  a  faith, 
which  so  marvellously  adapts  itself  to  every  human  need. 
Not,  indeed,  that  it  can  satisfy  the  soul’s  cravings,  but, 
at  least,  it  can  sometimes  help  the  soul  towards  a  higher 
satisfaction  than  the  faith  contains  within  itself.  It  sup¬ 
plies  a  multitude  of  external  forms,  in  which  the  spiritual 
may  be  clothed  and  manifested  ;  it  has  many  painted  win¬ 
dows,  as  it  were,  through  which  the  celestial  sunshine, 
else  disregarded,  may  make  itself  gloriously  perceptible 
in  visions  of  beauty  and  splendor.  There  is  no  one  want 
or  weakness  of  human  nature,  for  which  Catholicism  will 


ALTARS  AND  INCENSE. 


129 


own  itself  without  a  remedy ;  cordials,  certainly,  it  pos¬ 
sesses  in  abundance,  and  sedatives  in  inexhaustible  vari¬ 
ety,  and  what  may  once  have  been  genuine  medicaments, 
though  a  little  the  worse  for  long  keeping. 

To  do  it  justice,  Catholicism  is  such  a  miracle  of  fitness 
for  its  own  ends,  many  of  which  might  seem  to  be  admi¬ 
rable  ones,  that  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  it  a  contrivance 
of  mere  man.  Its  mighty  machinery  was  forged  and  put 
together,  not  on  middle  earth,  but  either  above  or  below. 
If  there  were  but  angels  to  work  it,  instead  of  the  very 
different  class  of  engineers  who  now  manage  its  cranks 
and  safety-valves,  the  system  would  soon  vindicate  the 
dignity  and  holiness  of  its  origin. 

Hilda  had  heretofore  made  many  pilgrimages  among 
tlie  churches  of  Rome,  for  the  sake  of  wondering  at  their 
gorgeousness.  Without  a  glimpse  at  these  palaces  of 
worship,  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  the  magnificence  of 
the  religion  that  reared  them.  Many  of  them  shine  with 
burnished  gold.  They  glow  with  pictures.  Their  walls, 
columns,  and  arches  seem  a  quarry  of  precious  stones, 
so  beautiful  and  costly  are  the  marbles  with  which  they 
are  inlaid.  Their  pavements  are  often  a  mosaic,  of  rare 
workmanship.  Around  their  lofty  cornices  hover  flights 
of  scupltured  angels  ;  and  within  the  vault  of  the  ceiling 
and  the  swelling  interior  of  the  dome,  there  are  frescos 
of  such  brilliancy,  and  wrought  with  so  artful  a  perspec¬ 
tive,  that  the  sky,  peopled  with  sainted  forms,  appears  to 
be  opened,  only  a  little  way  above  the  spectator.  Then 
there  are  chapels,  opening  from  the  side-aisles  and  tran¬ 
septs,  decorated  by  princes  for  their  own  burial-places, 
and  as  shrines  for  their  especial  saints.  In  these,  the 
splendor  of  the  entire  edifice  is  intensified  and  gathered 
to  a  focus.  Unless  words  were  gems,  that  would  flame 
with  many-colored  light  upon  the  page,  and  throw  thence 


130 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


a  tremulous  glimmer  into  the  reader’s  eyes,  it  were  vain 
to  attempt  a  description  of  a  princely  chapel. 

Eestless  with  her  trouble,  Hilda  now  entered  upon  an¬ 
other  pilgrimage  among  these  altars  and  shrines.  She 
climbed  the  hundred  steps  of  the  Ara  Cceli ;  she  trod  the 
broad,  silent  nave  of  St.  John  Lateran;  she  stood  in  the 
Pantheon,  under  the  round  opening  in  the  dome,  through 
which  the  blue  sunny  sky  still  gazes  down,  as  it  used 
to  gaze  when  there  were  Roman  deities  in  the  antique 
niches.  She  went  into  every  church  that  rose  before  her, 
but  not  now  to  wonder  at  its  magnificence,  which  she 
hardly  noticed  more  than  if  it  had  been  the  pine-built 
interior  of  a  New  England  meeting-house. 

She  went  —  and  it  was  a  dangerous  errand  —  to  ob¬ 
serve  how  closely  and  comfortingly  the  Po])ish  faith 
applied  itself  to  all  human  occasions.  It  was  impossible 
to  doubt  that  multitudes  of  people  found  tlieir  spiritual 
advantage  in  it,  who  would  find  none  at  all  in  our  own 
formless  mode  of  worship ;  which,  besides,  so  far  as  tlie 
sympathy  of  prayerful  souls  is  concerned,  can  be  enjoyed 
only  at  stated  and  too  unfrequent  periods.  But  here, 
whenever  the  hunger  for  divine  nutriment  came  upon  the 
soul,  it  could  on  the  instant  be  appeased.  At  one  or  an¬ 
other  altar,  the  incense  was  forever  ascending ;  the  mass 
always  being  performed,  and  carrying  upward  with  it^he 
devotion  of  such  as  had  not  words  for  their  own  prayer. 
And  yet,  if  the  worshipper  had  his  individual  petition  to 
otfer,  his  own  heart-secret  to  whisper  below  his  breath, 
there  were  divine  auditors  ever  ready  to  receive  it  from 
his  lips  ;  and  what  encouraged  him  still  more,  these  audi¬ 
tors  had  not  always  been  divine,  but  kept,  within  their 
heavenly  memories,  the  tender  humility  of  a  human  ex¬ 
perience.  Now  a  saint  in  heaven,  but  once  a  man  on 
earth. 


■ 


ALTARS  AND  INCENSE. 


131 


Hilda  saw  peasants,  citizens,  soldiers,  nobles,  women 
with  bare  heads,  ladies  in  their  silks,  entering  the 
churches  individuallj,  kneeling  for  '^moments,  or  for 
hours,  and  directing  their  inaudible  devotions  to  the 
shrine, of  some  saint  of  their  own  choice.  In  his  hal¬ 
lowed  person,  they  felt  themselves  possessed  of  an  own 
friend  in  heaven.  They  were  too  humble  to  approach 
the  Deity  directly.  Conscious  of  their  unworthiness, 
they  asked  the  mediation  of  their  sympathizing  patron, 
who,  on  the  score  of  his  ancient  martyrdom,  and  after 
many  ages  of  celestial  life,  might  venture  to  talk  with 
the  Divine  Presence,  almost  as  friend  with  friend. 
Though  dumb  before  its  Judge,  even  despair  could 
speak,  and  pour  out  the  misery  of  its  soul  like  water, 
to  an  advocate  so  wise  to  comprehend  the  case,  and  elo¬ 
quent  to  plead  it,  and  powerful  to  win  pardon,  whatever 
were  the  guilt.  Hilda  witnessed  what  she  deemed  to  be 
an  example  of  this  species  of  confidence  between  a  young 
man  and  his  saint.  He  stood  before  a  shrine,  writhing, 
wringing  his  hands,  contorting  his  whole  frame  in  an 
agony  of  remorseful  recollection,  but  finally  knelt  down 
to  weep  and  pray.  If  this  youth  had  been  a  Protestant,- 
he  would  have  kept  all  that  torture  pent  up  in  his  heart, 
and  let  it  burn  there  till  it  seared  him  into  indifference. 

Often  and  long,  Hilda  lingered  before  the  shrines  and 
chapels  of  the  Virgin,  and  departed  from  them  with  re¬ 
luctant  steps.  Here,  perhaps,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
her  delicate  appreciation  of  art  stood  her  in  good  stead, 
and  lost  Catholicism  a  convert.  If  the  painter  had 
represented  Mary  with  a  heavenly  face,  poor  Hilda  was 
now  in  the  very  mood  to  worship  her,  and  adopt  the 
faith  in  which  she  held  so  elevated  a  position.  But  she 
saw  that  it  was  merely  the  flattered  portrait  of  an  earthly 
beauty  ;  the  wife,  at  best,  of  the  artist ;  or,  it  might  be. 


I 


132  EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 

a  peasaiit-girl  of  the  Campagna,  or  some  Roman  prin¬ 
cess,  to  whom  he  desired  to  pay  his  court.  Tor  love, 
or  some  even  less  justifiable  motive,  the  old  painter  had 
apotheosized  these  women ;  he  thus  gained  for  them,  as 
far  as  his  skill  would  go,  not  only  the  meed  of  immor¬ 
tality,  but  the  privilege  of  presiding  over  Christian 
altars,  and  of  being  worshipped  with  far  holier  fervors 
than  while  they  dwelt  on  earth.  Hilda’s  fine  sense  of 
the  fit  and  decorous  could  not  be  betrayed  into  kneeling 
at  such  a  shrine. 

She  never  found  just  the  virgin  mother  whom  she 
needed.  Here,  it  was  an  earthly  mother,  worshipping 
the  earthly  baby  in  her  lap,  as  any  and  every  mother 
does,  from  Eve’s  time  downward.  In  another  picture, 
there  was  a  dim  sense,  shown  in  the  mother’s  face,  of 
some  divine  quality  in  the  child.  In  a  third,  the  artist 
seemed  to  have  had  a  higher  perception,  and  had  striven 
hard  to  shadow  out  the  Virgin’s  joy  at  bringing  the 
Saviour  into  the  world,  and  her  awe  and  love,  inextrica¬ 
bly  mingled,  of  the  little  form  which  she  pressed  against 
her  bosom.  So  far  was  good.  But  still,  Hilda  looked 
for  something  more ;  a  face  of  celestial  beauty,  but  hu¬ 
man  as  well  as  heavenly,  and  with  the  shadow  of  past 
grief  upon  it ;  bright  with  immortal  youth,  yet  matronly 
and  motherly ;  and  endowed  with  a  queenly  dignity,  but 
infinitely  tender,  as  the  highest  and  deepest  attribute  of 
her  divinity. 

“Ah,”  thought  Hilda  to  herself,  “why  should  not 
there  be  a  woman  to  listen  to  the  prayers  of  women  ?  a 
mother  in  heaven  for  all  motherless  girls  like  me  ?  In 
all  God’s  thought  and  care  for  us,  can  he  have  ndthheld 
this  boon,  which  onr  weakness  so  much  needs  ?  ” 

Oftener  than  to  the  other  churches,  she  wandered  into 
St.  Peter’s.  Within  its  vast  limits,  she  thought,  and 


ALTARS  AND  INCENSE. 


133 


beneath  the  sweep  of  its  great  dome,  there  should  be 
space  for  all  forms  of  Christian  truth ;  room  both  for 
the  faithful  and  the  heretic  to  kneel ;  due  help  for  every 
creature’s  spiritual  want. 

Hilda  had  not  always  been  adequately  impressed  by 
the  grandeur  of  this  mighty  cathedral.  When  she  first 
lifted  the  heavy  leathern  curtain,  at  one  of  the  doors,  a 
shadowy  edifice  in  her  imagination  had  been  dazzled 
out  of  sight  by  the  reality.  Her  preconception  of  St. 
Peter’s  was  a  structure  of  no  definite  outline,  misty  in 
its  architecture,  dim  and  gray  and  huge,  stretching  into 
an  interminable  perspective,  and  overarched  by  a  dome 
like  the  cloudy  firmament.  Beneath  that  vast  breadth 
and  height,  as  she  had  fancied  them,  the  personal  man 
might  feel  his  littleness,  and  the  soul  triumph  in  its 
immensity.  So,  in  her  earlier  visits,  when  the  com¬ 
passed  splendor  of  the  actual  interior  glowed  before  her 
eyes,  she  had  profanely  called  it  a  great  prettiness ;  a 
gay  piece  of  cabinet-work,  on  a  Titanic  scale ;  a  jewel- 
casket,  marvellonsly  magnified. 

This  latter  image  best  pleased  her  fancy ;  a  casket,  all 
inlaid,  in  the  inside,  with  precious  stones  of  various  hue, 
so  that  there  should  not  be  a  hair’s-breadth  of  the  small 
interior  unadorned  with  its  resplendent  gem.  Then,  con¬ 
ceive  this  minute  wonder  of  a  mosaic  box,  increased  to 
the  magnitude  of  a  cathedral,  without  losing  the  intense 
lustre  of  its  littleness,  but  all  its  petty  glory  striving  to 
be  sublime.  The  magic  transformation  from  the  minute 
to  the  vast  has  not  been  so  cunningly  effected  but  that 
the  rich  adornment  still  counteracts  the  impression  of 
space  and  loftiness.  The  spectator  is  more  sensible  of 
its  limits  than  of  its  extent. 

Until  after  many  visits,  Hilda  continued  to  mourn  for 
that  dim,  illimitable  interior,  which  with  her  eyes  shut 


134  ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 

she  had  seen  from  childhood,  but  which  vanished  at  her 
first  glimpse  through  the  actual  door.  Her  childish  vis¬ 
ion  seemed  preferable  to  the  cathedral,  which  Michael 
Angelo,  and  all  the  great  architects,  had  built ;  because, 
of  the  dream  edifice,  she  had  said,  “  How  vast  it  is  !  ” 
while  of  the  real  St.  Peter’s  she  could  only  say,  “  After 
all,  it  is  not  so  immense  !  ”  Besides,  such  as  the  church 
is,  it  can  nowhere  be  made  visible  at  one  glance.  It 
stands  in  its  own  way.  You  see  an  aisle  or  a  transept ; 
you  see  the  nave,  or  the  tribune  ;  but,  on  account  of  its 
ponderous  piers  and  other  obstructions,  it  is  only  by  this 
fragmentary  process  that  you  get  an  idea  of  the  cathe¬ 
dral. 

There  is  no  answering  such  objections.  The  great 
church  smiles  calmly  upon  its  critics,  and,  for  all  response, 
says,  “  Look  at  me  !  ”  and  if  you  still  murmur  for  the 
loss  of  your  shadowy  perspective,  there  comes  no  reply, 
save,  “  Look  at  me !  ”  in  endless  repetition,  as  the  one 
thing  to  be  said.  And,  after  looking  many  times,  with 
long  intervals  between,  you  discover  that  the  cathedral 
has  gradually  extended  itself  over  the  whole  compass  of 
your  idea  ;  it  covers  all  the  site  of  your  visionary  temple, 
and  has  room  for  its  cloudy  pinnacles  beneatlLthe  dome. 

One  afternoon,  as  Hilda  entered  St.  Peter’s  in  som¬ 
bre  mood,  its  interior  beamed  upon  her  with  all  the  effect 
of  a  new  creation.  It  seemed  an  embodimemt  of  what¬ 
ever  the  imagination  could  conceive,  or  the  heart  desire, 
as  a  magnificent,  comprehensive,  ma,jestic  symbol  of  relig¬ 
ious  faith.  All  splendor  was  included  within  its  verge, 
and  there  was  space  for  all.  She  gazed  with  delight  even 
at  the  multiplicity  of  ornament.  She  was  glad  at  the 
cherubim  that  fluttered  upon  the  pilasters,  and  of  the 
marble  doves,  hovering  unexpectedly,  with  green  olive- 
branches  of  precious  stones.  She  could  spare  nothing. 


u.  !  2  U. 


ALTARS  AND  INCENSE. 


135 


now,  of  the  manifold  magnificence  that  had  been  lavished, 
in  a  hundred  places,  richly  enough  to  have  made  world- 
famous  shrines  in  any  other  church,  but  which  here  melted 
away  into  the  vast  sunny  breadth,  and  were  of  no  sepa¬ 
rate  account.  Yet  each  contributed  its  little  all  towards 
the  grandeur  of  the  whole. 

She  would  not  have  banished  one  of  those  grim  popes, 
who  sit  each  over  his  own  tomb,  scattering  cold  benedic¬ 
tions  out  of  their  marble  hands ;  nor  a  single  frozen  sister 
of  the  Allegoric  family,  to  whom  —  as,  like  hired  mourn¬ 
ers  at  an  English  funeral,  it  costs  them  no  wear  and  tear 
of  heart  —  is  assigned  the  ofl&ce  of  weeping  for  the  dead. 
If  you  choose  to  see  tliese  things,  they  present  them¬ 
selves;  if  you  deem  them  unsuitable  and  out  of  place, 
they  vanish,  individually,  but  leave  their  life  upon  the 
walls. 

The  pavement !  it  stretched  out  illimitably,  a  plain  of 
many-colored  marble,  where  thousands  of  worshippers 
might  kneel  together,  and  shadowless  angels  tread  among 
them  without  brushing  their  heavenly  garments  against 
tliose  eartldy  ones.  The  root!  the  dome  I  Rich,  gor¬ 
geous,  filled  with  sinishiue,  cheerfully  sublime,  and  fade¬ 
less  after  centuries,  those  lofty  depths  seemed  to  translate 
tlie  heavens  to  mortal  comprehension,  and  help  the  spirit 
upward  to  a  yet  higher  and  wider  sphere.  Must  not  the 
faith,  that  built  this  matchless  edifice,  and  warmed,  illu¬ 
minated,  and  overflowed  from  it,  include  whatever  can 
satisfy  human  aspirations  at  the  loftiest,  or  minister  to 
human  necessity  at  the  sorest  ?  If  Religion  had  a  mate¬ 
rial  home,  was  it  not  here  ? 

As  the  scene  which  we  but  faintly  suggest  shone 
calmly  before  the  New  England  maiden  at  her  entrance, 
she  moved,  as  if  by  very  instinct,  to  one  of  the  vases  of 
holy  water,  upborne  against  a  column  by  two  mighty 


136 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


clierubs.  Hilda  dipped  her  fingers,  and  had  almost  signed 
the  cross  upon  her  breast,  but  forbore,  and  trembled, 
while  shaking  the  water  from  her  finger-tips.  She  felt 
as  if  her  mother’s  spirit,  somewhere  within  the  dome, 
were  looking  down  upon  her  child,  the  daughter  of  Puri¬ 
tan  forefathers,  and  weeping  to  behold  her  ensnared  by 
these  gaudy  superstitions.  So  she  strayed  sadly  onward, 
up  the  nave,  and  towards  the  hundred  golden  lights  that 
swarm  before  the  high  altar.  Seeing  a  woman,  a  priest, 
and  a  soldier  kneel  to  kiss  the  toe  of  the  brazen  St. 
Peter,  who  protrudes  it  beyond  his  pedestal,  for  the  pur¬ 
pose,  polished  bright  with  former  salutations,  while  a  child 
stood  on  tiptoe  to  do  the  same,  the  glory  of  the  church 
was  darkened  before  Hilda’s  eyes.  But  again  she  went 
onward  into  remoter  regions.  She  turned  into  the  right 
transept,  and  thence  found  her  way  to  a  shrine,  in  the 
extreme  corner  of  the  edifice,  which  is  adorned  with  a 
mosaic  copy  of  Guido’s  beautiful  Archangel,  treading  on 
the  prostrate  fiend. 

This  was  one  of  the  few  pictures,  which,  in  these 
dreary  days,  had  not  faded  nor  deteriorated  in  Hilda’s 
estimation ;  not  that  it  was  better  than  many  in  which 
she  no  longer  took  an  interest ;  but  the  subtile  delicacy  of 
the  painter’s  genius  was  peculiarly  adapted  to  her  charac¬ 
ter,  She  felt,  while  gazing  at  it,  that  the  artist  had  done 
a  great  thing,  not  merely  for  the  Church  of  Borne,  but 
for  the  cause  of  Good.  The  moral  of  the  picture,  the 
immortal  youth  and  loveliness  of  Yirtue,  and  its  irresist¬ 
ible  might  against  ugly  Evil,  appealed  as  much  to  Puri¬ 
tans  as  Catholics. 

Suddenly,  and  as  if  it  were  done  in  a  dream,  Plilda 
found  herself  kneeling  before  the  .shrine,  under  the  ever¬ 
burning  lamp  that  throws  its  ray  upon  the  Archangel’s 
face.  She  laid  her  forehead  on  the  marble  steps  before 


ALTARS  AND  INCENSE. 


137 


the  altar,  and  sobbed  out  a  prayer ;  she  hardly  knew  to 
whom,  whether  Michael,  the  Yirgin,  or  the  Father;  she 
hardly  knew  for  what,  save  only  a  vague  longing,  that 
thus  the  burden  of  her  spirit  might  be  lightened  a  little. 

In  an  instant  she  snatched  herself  up,  as  it  were,  from 
her  knees,  all  a-throb  with  the  emotions  which  were  strug¬ 
gling  to  force  their  way  out  of  her  heart  by  the  avenue 
that  had  so  nearly  been  opened  for  them.  Yet  there  was 
a  strange  sense  of  relief  won  by  that  momentary,  pas¬ 
sionate  prayer ;  a  strange  joy,  moreover,  whether  from 
what  she  had  done,  or  for  what  she  had  escaped  doing, 
Hilda  could  not  tell.  But  she  felt  as  one  half  stifled, 
who  has  stolen  a  breath  of  air. 

Next  to  the  shrine  where  she  had  knelt,  there  is  an¬ 
other,  adorned  with  a  picture  by  Guercino,  representing  a 
maiden’s  body  in  the  jaws  of  the  sepulchre,  and  her  lover 
weeping  over  it;  while  her  beatified  spirit  looks  down 
upon  the  scene,  in  the  society  of  the  Saviour  and  a  throng 
of  saints.  Hilda  wondered  if  it  were  not  possible,  by  some 
miracle  of  faith,  so  to  rise  above  her  present  despondency 
that  she  might  look  down  upon  what  she  was,  just  as 
Petronilla  in  the  picture  looked  at  her  own  corpse.  A 
hope,  born  of  hysteric  trouble,  fluttered  in  her  heart.  A 
presentiment,  or  what  she  fancied  such,  whispered  her, 
that,  before  she  had  finished  the  circuit  of  the  cathedral, 
relief  would  come. 

The  unhappy  are  continually  tantalized  by  similar  de¬ 
lusions  of  succor  near  at  hand ;  at  least,  the  despair  is 
very  dark  that  has  no  such  will-o’-the-wisp  to  glimmer 
in  it. 


CHAPTEE  XIV. 

THE  WORLD’S  CATHEDRAL. 

TILL  gliding  onward,  Hilda  now  looted  np  into 
the  dome,  where  the  sunshine  came  through  the 
western  windows,  and  threw  across  long  shafts 
of  light.  They  rested  upon  the  mosaic  figures  of  two 
evangelists  above  the  cornice.  These  great  beams  of  ra¬ 
diance,  traversing  what  seemed  the  empty  space,  were 
made  visible  in  misty  glory,  by  the  holy  cloud  of  incense, 
else  unseen,  which  had  risen  into  the  middle  dome.  It 
was  to  Hilda  as  if  she  beheld  the  worship  of  the  priest 
and  people  ascending  heavenward,  purified  from  its  alloy 
of  earth,  and  acquiring  celestial  substance  in  the  golden 
atmosphere  to  which  it  aspired.  She  wondered  if  angels 
did  not  sometimes  hover  within  the  dome,  and  show 
themselves,  in  brief  glimpses,  floating  amid  the  sunshine 
and  the  glorified  vapor,  to  those  who  devoutly  worshipped 
on  the  pavement. 

She  had  now  come  into  the  southern  transept.  Around 
this  portion  of  the  church  are  ranged  a  number  of  con¬ 
fessionals.  They  are  small  tabernacles  of  carved  wood, 
with  a  closet  for  the  priest  in  the  centre  ;  and,  on  either 
side,  a  space  for  a  penitent  to  kneel,  and  breathe  his  con¬ 
fession  through  a  perforated  auricle  into  the  good  father’s 


THE  WORLD’S  CATHEDRAL. 


139 


ear.  Observing  this  arrangement,  though  already  fa¬ 
miliar  to  her,  our  poor  Hilda  was  anew  impressed  with 
the  infinite  convenience  —  if  we  may  use  so  poor  a  phrase 

—  of  the  Catholic  religion  to  its  devout  believers. 

Who,  in  truth,  that  considers  the  matter,  can  resist  a 

similar  impression !  In  the  hottest  fever-fit  of  life,  they 
can  always  find,  ready  for  their  need,  a  cool,  quiet,  beau¬ 
tiful  place  of  worship.  They  may  enter  its  sacred  pre¬ 
cincts  at  any  hour,  leaving  the  fret  and  trouble  of  the 
world  behind  them,  and  purifying  themselves  with  a  touch 
of  holy  water  at  the  threshold.  In  the  calm  interior,  fra¬ 
grant  of  rich  and  soothing  incense,  they  may  hold  con¬ 
verse  with  some  saint,  their  awful,  kindly  friend.  And, 
most  precious  privilege  of  all,  whatever  perplexity,  sor¬ 
row,  guilt,  may  weigh  upon  their  souls,  they  can  fling 
down  the  dark  burden  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  go 
forth  —  to  sin  no  more,  nor  be  any  longer  disquieted; 
but  to  live  again  in  the  freshness  and  elasticity  of  inno¬ 
cence.  ' 

“  Ho  not  these  inestimable  advantages,”  thought  Hilda, 
“  or  some  of  them  at  least,  belong  to  Christianity  itself  P 
Are  they  not  a  part  of  the  blessings  which  the  system 
was  meant  to  bestow  upon  mankind  ?  Can  the  faith  in 
which  I  was  born  and  bred  be  perfect,  if  it  leave  a  weak 
girl  like  me  to  wander,  desolate,  with  this  great  trouble 
crushing  me  down  ?  ” 

A  poignant  anguish  thrilled  within  her  breast ;  it  was 
like  a  thing  that  had  life,  and  was  struggling  to  get  out. 

“  0,  help  !  0,  help  !  ”  cried  Hilda ;  “  I  cannot,  can¬ 

not  bear  it !  ” 

Only  by  the  reverberations  that  followed  — arch  echo¬ 
ing  the  sound  to  arch,  and  a  pope  of  bronze  repeating  it 
to  a  pope  of  marble,  as  each  sat  enthroned  over  his  tomb 

—  did  Hilda  become  aware  that  she  had  really  spoken 


140 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


above  her  breath.  But,  in  that  great  space,  there  is  no 
need  to  hush  up  the  heart  within  one’s  own  bosom,  so 
carefully  as  elsewhere ;  and  if  the  cry  reached  any  dis¬ 
tant  auditor,  it  came  broken  into  many  fragments,  and 
from  various  quarters  of  the  church. 

Approaching  one  of  the  confessionals,  she  saw  a  woman 
kneeling  within.  Just  as  Hilda  drew  near,  the  penitent 
rose,  came  forth,  and  kissed  the  hand  of  the  priest,  who 
regarded  her  with  a  look  of  paternal  benignity,  and  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  giving  her  some  spiritual  counsel,  in  a  low 
voice.  She  then  knelt  to  receive  his  blessing,  which  was 
fervently  bestowed.  Hilda  was  so  struck  with  the  peace 
and  joy  in  the  woman’s  face,  that,  as  the  latter  retired, 
she  could  not  help  speaking  to  her. 

“  You  look  very  happy  !  ”  said  she.  “  Is  it  so  sweet, 
then,  to  go  to  the  confessional  ?  ” 

“O,  very  sweet,  my  dear  signorina!”  answered  the 
woman,  with  moistened  eyes  and  an  atfectionate  smile ; 
for  she  was  so  thoroughly  softened  with  what  she  had 
been  doing,  that  she  felt  as  if  Hilda  were  her  younger 
sister.  ‘‘My  heart  is  at  rest  now.  Thanks  be  to  the 
Saviour,  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  the  saints,  and  this 
good  father,  there  is  no  more  trouble  for  poor  Teresa !  ” 

“  I  am  glad  for  your  sake,”  said  Hilda,  sighing  for  her 
own.  ‘‘I  am  a  poor  heretic,  but  a  human  sister ;  and  I 
rejoice  for  you  !  ” 

She  went  from  one  to  another  of  the  confessionals, 
and,  looking  at  each,  perceived  that  they  were  inscribed 
with  gilt  letters  :  on  one,  Puo  Italica  Lingua  ;  on 
another.  Pro  Plandrica  Lingua  ;  on  a  third.  Pro 
PoLONiCA  Lingua  ;  on  a  fourth.  Pro  Illyrica  Lin¬ 
gua;  on  a  fifth.  Pro  Hispanica  Lingua.  In  this  vast 
and  hospitable  cathedral,  worthy  to  be  the  religious  heart 
of  the  whole  world,  there  was  room  for  all  nations ;  there 


THE  WORLD’S  CATHEDRAL. 


141 


was  access  to  the  Divine  Grace  for  ev^ry  Christian 
sonl ;  there  was  an  ear  for  wliat  the  overburdened  heart 
might  have  to  murmur,  speak  in  what  native  tongue  it 
would. 

When  Hilda  had  almost  completed  the  circuit  of  the 
transept,  she  came  to  a  confessional  —  the  central  part 
was  closed,  but  a  mystic  rod  protruded  from  it,  indicating 
the  presence  of  a  priest  within  —  on  which  w'as  inscribed. 
Pro  Anglica  Lingua. 

It  was  the  word  in  season  !  If  she  had  heard  her 
mother’s  voice  from  within  the  tabernacle,  calling  her,  in 
her  own  mother-tongue,  to  come  and  lay  her  poor  head 
in  her  lap,  and  sob  out  all  her  troubles,  Hilda  could  not 
have  responded  with  a  more  inevitable  obedience.  She 
did  not  think ;  she  only  felt.  Within  her  heart  was  a 
great  need.  Close  at  hand,  within  the  veil  of  the  con¬ 
fessional,  was  the  relief.  She  flung  herself  down  in  the 
penitent’s  place ;  and,  tremulously,  passionately,  with 
sobs,  tears,  and  the  turbulent  overflow  of  emotion  too 
long  repressed,  she  poured  out  the  dark  story  which  had 
infused  its  poison  into  her  innocent  life. 

Hilda  had  not  seen,  nor  could  she  now  see  the  visage 
of  the  priest.  But,  at  intervals,  in  the  pauses  of  that 
strange  confession,  half  choked  by  the  struggle  of  her 
feelings  towards  an  outlet,  she  heard  a  mild,  calm  voice, 
somewhat  mellowed  by  age.  It  spoke  soothingly  ;  it  en¬ 
couraged  her ;  it  led  her  on  by  apposite  questions  that 
seemed  to  be  suggested  by  a  great  and  tender  interest, 
and  acted  like  magnetism  in  attracting  the  girl’s  confi¬ 
dence  to  this  unseen  friend.  The  priest’s  share  in  the 
interview,  indeed,  resembled  that  of  one  who  removes  the 
stones,  clustered  branehes,  or  whatever  entanglements 
impede  the  current  of  a  swollen  stream.  Hilda  could 
have  imagined  —  so  much  to  the  purpose  were  his  in- 


142 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


quiries  —  that  he  was  already  acquainted  with  some  out¬ 
line  of  what  she  strove  to  tell  him. 

Thus  assisted,  she  revealed  the  whole  of  her  terrible  se¬ 
cret  !  The  whole,  except  that  no  name  escaped  her  lips. 

And,  ah,  what  a  relief !  When  the  hysteric  gasp,  the 
strife  between  words  and  sobs,  had  subsided,  what  a  tor¬ 
ture  had  passed  away  from  her  soul !  It  was  all  gone  ; 
her  bosom  was  as  pure  now  as  in  her  childhood.  She 
was  a  girl  again ;  she  was  Hilda  of  the  dove-cote ;  not 
that  doubtful  creature  whom  her  own  doves  had  hardly 
recognized  as  their  mistress  and  playmate,  by  reason  of 
the  death-scent  that  clung  to  her  garments  !' 

After  she  had  ceased  to  speak,  Hilda  heard  the  priest 
bestir  himself  with  an  old  man’s  reluctant  movement. 
He  stepped  out  of  the  confessional ;  and  as  the  girl  was 
still  kneeling  in  the  penitential  corner,  he  summoned  her 
forth.  * 

“  Stand  up,  my  daughter,”  said  the  mild  voice  of  the 
confessor  ;  “  what  we  have  further  to  say  must  be  spoken 
face  to  face.” 

Hilda  did  his  bidding,  and  stood  before  him  with  a 
downcast  visage,  which  flushed  and  grew  pale  again. 
But  it  had  the  wonderful  beauty  which  we  may  often  ob¬ 
serve  in  those  who  have  recently  gone  through  a  great 
struggle,  and  won  the  peace  that  lies  just  on  the  other 
side.  We  see  it  in  a  new  mother’s  face ;  we  see  it  in  the 
faces  of  the  dead ;  and  in  Hilda’s  countenance  —  which 
had  always  a  rare  natural  charm  for  her  friends  - —  this 
glory  of  peace  made  her  as  lovely  as  an  angel. 

On  her  part,  Hilda  beheld  a  venerable  figure  with  hair 
as  white  as  snow,  and  a  face  strikingly  characterized  by 
benevolence.  It  bore  marks  of  thought,  however,  and 
penetrative  insight;  although  the  keen  glances  of  the 
eyes  were  now  somewhat  bedimmed  with  tears,  which  the 


THE  WORLD’S  CATHEDRAL.  148 

aged  shed,  or  almost  shed,  on  lighter  stress  of  emotion 
than  would  elicit  them  from  younger  men. 

“  It  has  not  escaped  my  observation,  daughter,”  said 
the  priest,  “  that  this  is  your  first  acquaintance  with  the 
confessional.  How  is  this  ?  ” 

“Father,”  replied  Hilda,  raising  her  eyes,  and  again 
letting  them  fall,  “I  am  of  New  England  birth,  and  was 
bred  as  what  you  call  a  heretic.” 

“From  New  England!”  exclaimed  the  priest.  “It 
was  my  own  birthplace,  likewise  ;  nor  have  fifty  years  of 
absence  made  me  cease  to  love  it.  But,  a  heretic  1  And 
are  you  reconciled  to  the  Church  ?  ” 

“Never,  father,”  said  Hilda. 

“  And,  that  being  the  case,”  demanded  the  old  man, 
“  on  what  ground,  my  daughter,  have  you  sought  to  avail 
yourself  of  these  blessed  privileges,  confined  exclusively 
to  members  of  the  one  true  Church,  of  confession  and 
absolution  ?  ” 

“  Absolution,  father  ?  ”  exclaimed  Hilda,  shrinking 
back.  “  0  no,  no  !  I  never  dreamed  of  that !  Only  our 
Heavenly  Father  can  forgive  my  sins  ;  and  it  is  only  by 
sincere  repentance  of  whatever  wrong  I  may  have  done, 
and  by  my  own  best  efforts  towards  a  higher  life,  that  I 
can  hope  for  his  forgiveness  !  God  forbid  that  I  should 
ask  absolution  from  mortal  man  1  ” 

“  Then,  wherefore,”  rejoined  the  priest,  with  somewhat 
less  mildness  in  his  tone,  —  “  wherefore,  I  ask  again,  have 
you  taken  possession,  as  I  may  term  it,  of  this  holy  or¬ 
dinance  ;  being  a  heretic,  and  neither  seeking  to  share, 
nor  having  faith  in,  the  unspeakable  advantages  which 
the  Church  offers  to  its  penitents  ?  ” 

“  Father,”  answered  Hilda,  trying  to  tell  the  old  man 
the  simple  truth,  “  I  am  a  motherless  girl,  and  a  stranger 
here  in  Italy.  I  had  only  God  to  take  care  of  me,  and 


144 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


be  my  closest  friend ;  and  the  terrible,  terrible  crime, 
which  I  have  revealed  to  you,  thrust  itself  between  him 
and  me ;  so  that  I  groped  for  him  in  the  darkness,  as  it 
were,  and  found  him  not,  —  found  nothing  but  a  dreadful 
solitude,  and  this  crime  in  the  midst  of  it !  I  could  not 
bear  it.  It  seemed  as  if  I  made  the  awful  guilt  my  own, 
by  keeping  it  hidden  in  my  heart.  I  grew  a  fearful  thing 
to  myself.  I  was  going  mad  !  ’’ 

It  was  a  grievous  trial,  my  poor  child  !  ”  observed  the 
confessor.  “  Your  relief,  I  trust,  will  prove  to  be  greater 
than  you  yet  know  !  ” 

“  I  feel  already  how  immense  it  is  !  ”  said  Hilda,  look¬ 
ing  gratefully  in  his  face.  “  Surely,  father,  it  was  the 
hand  of  Providence  that  led  me  hither,  and  made  me  feel 
that  this  vast  temple  of  Christianity,  this  great  home  of 
religion,  must  needs  contain  some  cure,  some  ease,  at 
least,  for  my  unutterable  anguish.  And  it  has  proved  so. 
I  have  told  the  hideous  secret ;  told  it  under  the  sacred 
seal  of  the  confessional ;  and  now  it  will  burden  my  poor 
heart  no  more  !  ” 

“But,  daughter,”  answered  the  venerable  priest,  not 
unmoved  by  what  Hilda  said,  “  you  forget !  you  mistake  ! 

- — you  claim  a  privilege  to  which  you  have  not  entitled 
yourself !  The  seal  of  the  confessional,  do  you  say  ? 
God  forbid  that  it  should  ever  be  broken,  where  it  has 
been  fairly  impressed  ;  but  it  applies  only  to  matters  that 
have  been  confided  to  its  keeping  in  a  certain  prescribed 
method,  and  by  persons,  moreover,  who  have  faith  in  the 
sanctity  of  the  ordinance.  I  hold  myself,  and  any  learned 
casuist  of  the  Church  would  hold  me,  as  free  to  disclose 
all  the  particulars  of  what  you  term  your  confession,  as  if 
they  had  come  to  my  knowledge  in  a  secular  way.” 

“  This  is  not  right,  father !  ”  said  Hilda,  fixing  her  eyes 
on  the  old  man’s. 


THE  WORLD’S  CATHEDRAL. 


145 


“  Do  not  you  see,  child,”  he  rejoined,  with  some  little 
heat,  “with  all  your  nicety  of  conscienee,  cannot  you 
recognize  it  as  my  duty  to  make  the  story  known  to  the 
proper  authorities;  a  great  crime  against  public  justice 
being  involved,  and  further  evil  consequences  likely  to 
ensue  ?  ” 

“No,  father,  no !  ”  answered  Hilda,  courageously,  her 
cheeks  flushing  and  her  eyes  brightening  as  she  spoke. 
“  Trust  a  girl’s  simple  heart  sooner  than  any  casuist  of 
your  Church,  however  learned  he  may  be.  Trust  your 
own  heart,  too  !  I  came  to  your  confessional,  father,  as  I 
devoutly  believe,  by  the  direct  impulse  of  Heaven,  which 
also  brought  you  hither  to-day,  in  its  mercy  and  love,  to 
relieve  me  of  a  torture  that  I  could  no  longer  bear.  I 
trusted  in  the  pledge  which  your  Church  has  always  held 
sacred  between  the  priest  and  the  human  soul,  which, 
through  his  medium,  is  struggling  towards  its  Tather 
above.  What  I  have  conflded  to  you  lies  sacredly  be¬ 
tween  God  and  yourself.  Let  it  rest  there,  father ;  for 
this  is  right,  and  if  you  do  otherwise,  you  will  perpetrate 
a  great  wrong,  both  as  a  priest  and  a  man !  And,  be¬ 
lieve  me,  no  question,  no  torture,  shall  ever  force  my  lips 
to  utter  what  would  be  necessary,  in  order  to  make  my 
confession  available  towards  the  punishment  of  the  guilty 
ones.  Leave  Providence  to  deal  with  them  !  ” 

“  My  quiet  little  countrywoman,”  said  the  priest,  with 
half  a  smile  on  his  kindly  old  face,  “you  can  pluck  up  a 
spirit,  I  perceive,  when  you  fancy  an  occasion  for  one.” 

“  I  have  spirit  only  to  do  what  I  think  right,”  replied 
Hilda,  simply.  “  In  other  respects,  I  am  timorous.” 

“But  you  confuse  yourself  between  right  feelings  and 
very  foolish  inferences,”  continued  the  priest,  “  as  is  the 
wont  of  women,  —  so  much  I  have  learnt  by  long  experi¬ 
ence  in  the  confessional,  —  be  they  young  or  old.  How-- 
VOL.  II.  7  j 


146 


EOMxiNCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


ever,  to  set  your  heart  at  rest,  there  is  no  probable  need 
for  me  to  reveal  the  matter.  What  you  have  told,  if  I 
mistake  not,  and  perhaps  more,  is  already  known  in  the 
quarter  which  it  most  concerns.”  . 

“  Known !  ”  exclaimed  Hilda.  “  Known  to  the  authori¬ 
ties  of  Home  !  And  what  will  be  the  consequence  ?  ” 
Hush,”  answered  the  confessor,  laying  his  finger  on 
his  lips.  ‘‘  I  tell  you  my  supposition  —  mind,  it  is  no  as¬ 
sertion  of  the  fact  - —  in  order  that  you  may  go  the  more 
cheerfully  on  your  way,  not  deeming  yourself  burdened 
with  any  responsibility  as  concerns  this  dark  deed.  And 
now,  daughter,  what  have  you  to  give  in  return  for  an 
old  man’s  kindness  and  sympathy  ?  ” 

“  My  grateful  remembrance,”  said  Hilda,  fervently,  as 
long  as  I  live  !  ” 

“  And  nothing  more  ?  ”  the  priest  inquired,  with  a  per¬ 
suasive  smile.  “  Will  you  not  reward  him  with  a  great 
joy;  one  of  the  last  joys  that  he  may  know  on  earth, 
and  a  fit  one  to  take  with  him  into  the  better  world  ?  In 
a  word,  will  you  not  allow  him  to  bring  you,  as  a  stray 
lamb,  into  the  true  fold  ?  You  have  experienced  some 
little  taste  of  the  relief  and  comfort  which  the  Church 
keeps  abundantly  in  store  for  all  its  faithful  children. 
Come  home,  dear  child,  —  poor  wanderer,  who  hast 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  heavenly  light,  —  come  home, 
and  be  at  rest.” 

“Kather,”  said  Hilda,  much  moved  by  his  kindly  ear¬ 
nestness  ;  in  which,  however,  genuine  as  it  was,  there 
might  still  be  a  leaven  of  professional  craft,  “  I  dare  not 
come  a  step  farther  than  Providence  shall  guide  me.  Ho 
not  let  it  grieve  you,  therefore,  if  I  never  return  to  the 
confessional ;  never  dip  my  fingers  in  holy  water ;  never 
sign  my  bosom  with  the  cross.  I  am  a  daughter  of  the 
Puritans.  But,  in  spite  of  my  heresy,”  she  added,  with 


THE  WORLD’S  CATHEDRAL. 


147 


a  sweet,  tearful  smile,  “  you  may  one  day  see  tlie  poor 
girl,  to  whom  you  have  done  this  great  Christian  kind¬ 
ness,  coming  to  remind  you  of  it,  and  thank  you  for  it, 
in  the  Better  Land.” 

The  old  priest  shook  his  head.  But,  as  he  stretched 
out  his  hands  at  the  same  moment,  in  the  act  of  benedic¬ 
tion,  Hilda  knelt  down  and  received  the  blessing  with  as 
devout  a  simplicity  as  any  Catholic  of  them  all. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


HILDA  AND  A  FSIEND. 


HEX  Hilda  knelt  to  receive  the  priest’s  benedic¬ 
tion,  the  act  was  witnessed  by  a  person  who 
stood  leaning  against  the  marble  balustrade  that 
surrounds  the  hundred  golden  lights,  before  the  high 
altar.  He  had  stood  there,  indeed,  from  the  moment  of 
the  giiTs  entrance  into  the  confessional.  His  start  of 
surprise,  at  first  beholding  her,  and  the  anxious  gloom 
that  afterwards  settled  on  his  face,  sufficiently  betokened 
that  he  felt  a  deep  and  sad  interest  in  what  was  going 
forward. 

After  Hilda  had  bidden  the  priest  farewell,  she  came 
slowly  towards  the  high  altar.  The  individual,  to  whom 
we  have  alluded,  seemed  irresolute  whether  to  advance 
or  retire.  His  hesitation  lasted  so  long,  that  the  maiden, 
straying  through  a  happy  revery,  had  crossed  the  wide 
extent  of  the  pavement  between  the  confessional  and  the 
altar,  before  he  had  decided  whether  to  meet  her.  At 
last,  when  within  a  pace  or  two,  she  raised  her  eyes  aud 
recognized  Kenyon. 

“  It  is  you  !  ”  she  exclaimed,  with  joyful  surprise.  I 
am  so  happy.” 

In  truth,  the  sculptor  had  never  before  seen,  nor 


HILDA  AND  A  FRIEND. 


149 


hardly  imagined,  such  a  figure  of  peaceful  beatitude  as 
Hilda  now  presented.  While  coming  towards  him  in 
the  solemn  radiance  which,  at  that  period  of  the  day,  is 
diffused  through  the  transept,  and  showered  down  be¬ 
neath  the  dome,  she  seemed  of  the  same  substance  as 
the  atmosphere  that  enveloped  her.  He  could  scarcely 
tell  whether  she  was  imbued  with  sunshine,  or  whether 
it  was  a  glow  of  happiness  that  shone  out  of  her. 

At  all  events,  it  was  a  marvellous  change  from  the  sad 
girl,  who  had  entered  the  confessional  bewildered  with 
anguish,  to  this  bright,  yet  softened  image  of  religious 
consolation  that  emerged  from  it.  It  was  as  if  one  of  the 
throng  of  angelic  people,  who  might  be  hovering  in  the 
sunny  depths  of  the  dome,  had  alighted  on  the  pavement. 
Indeed,  this  capability  of  transfiguration,  which  we  often 
see  wrought  by  inward  delight  on  persons  far  less  capa¬ 
ble  of  it  than  Hilda,  suggests  how  angels  come  by  their 
beauty.  It  grows  out  of  their  happiness,  and  lasts  for¬ 
ever  only  because  that  is  immortal. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Kenyon  was  glad  to  take 
it  in  his  own,  if  only  to  assure  himself  that  she  was  made 
of  earthly  material. 

“.Yes,  Hilda,  I  see  that  you  are  very  happy,”  he  re¬ 
plied,  gloomily,  and  withdrawing  his  hand  after  a  single 
pressure.  “Eor  me,  I  never  was  less  so  than  at  this 
moment.” 

“  Has  any  misfortune  befallen  you  ?  ”  asked  Hilda, 
with  earnestness.  “Pray  tell  me;  and  you  shall  have 
my  sympathy,  though  I  must  still  be  very  happy.  Now, 
I  know  how  it  is,  that  the  saints  above  are  touched  by 
the  sorrows  of  distressed  people  on  earth,  and  yet  are 
never  made  wretched  by  them.  Not  that  I  profess  to 
be  a  saint,  you  know,”  she  added,  smiling  radiantly, 
“But  the  heart  grows  so  large,  and  so  rich,  and  so 


150 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


variously  endowed,  when  it  has  a  great  sense  of  bliss, 
that  it  can  give  smiles  to  some,  and  tears  to  others,  with 
equal  sincerity,  and  enjoy  its  own  peace  throughout  all.” 

“Do  not  say  you  are  no  saint!  ”  answered  Kenyon, 
with  a  smile,  though  he  felt  that  the  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes.  “  You  will  still  be  Saint  Hilda,  whatever  church 
may  canonize  you.” 

“Ah  !  you  would  not  have  said  so,  had  you  seen  me 
hut  an  hour  ago  !  ”  murmured  she.  “  I  was  so  wretched, 
that  there  seemed  a  grievous  sin  in  it.” 

“  And  what  has  made  you  so  suddenly  happy  ?  ”  in¬ 
quired  the  sculptor.  “But  first,  Hilda,  will  you  not  tell 
me  why  you  were  so  wretched  ?  ” 

“Had  I  met  you  yesterday,  I  might  have  told  you 
that,”  she  replied.  “To-day,  there  is  no  need.” 

“  Your  happiness,  then  ?  ”  said  the  sculptor,  as  sadly 
as  before.  “  Whence  comes  it  F  ” 

“  A  great  burden  has  been  lifted  from  my  heart,  — 
from  my  conscience,  I  had  almost  said,”  answered  Hilda, 
without  shunning  the  glance  that  he  fixed  upon  her.  “  I 
am  a  new  creature,  since  this  morning.  Heaven  he  praised 
for  it !  It  was  a  blessed  hour  —  a  blessed  impulse  —  tliat 
brought  me  to  this  beautiful  and  glorious  cathedral.  I 
shall  hold  it  in  loving  remembrance  while  I  live,  as  the 
spot  where  I  found  infinite  peace  after  infinite  trouble.” 

Her  heart  seemed  so  full,  that  it  spilt  its  new  gush  of 
happiness,  as  it  were,  like  rich  and  sunny  wine  out  of  an 
over-brimming  goblet.  Kenyon  saw  that  she  was  in  one 
of  those  moods  of  elevated  feeling,  when  the  soul  is  up¬ 
held  by  a  strange  tranquillity,  which  is  really  more  pas¬ 
sionate,  and  less  controllable,  than  emotions  far  exceeding 
it  in  violence.  He  felt  that  there  would  be  indelicacy, 
if  lie  ought  not  rather  to  call  it  impiety,  in  his  stealing 
upon  Hilda,  while  she  was  thus  beyond  her  own  guar- 


HILDA  AND  A  FllIEND. 


151 


diaiisliip,  and  surprising  lier  out  of  secrets  wliicli  slie 
might  afterwards  bitterly  regret  betraying  to  liim. 
Therefore,  though  yearning  to  know  what  had  happened, 
he  resolved  to  forbear  further  question. 

Simple  and  earnest  people,  however,  being  accustomed 
to  speak  from  their  genuine  impulses,  cannot  easily,  as 
craftier  men  do,  avoid  the  subject  which  they  have  at 
heart.  As  often  as  the  sculptor  unclosed  his  lips,  such 
words  as  these  were  ready  to  burst  out :  — 

“  Hilda,  have  you  flung  your  angelic  purity  into  that 
mass  of  unspeakable  corruption,  the  Roman  Church  ?  ” 

“  What  were  you  saying  ?  ”  she  asked,  as  Kenyon 
forced  back  an  almost  uttered  exclamation  of  this  kind. 

“  1  was  thinking  of  what  you  have  just  remarked  about 
the  cathedral,”  said  he,  looking  up  into  the  mighty  hollow 
of  the  dome.  “It  is  indeed  a  magnificent  structure, 
and  an  adequate  expression  of  the  Faith  which  built  it. 
When  I  beliold  it  in  a  proper  mood,  —  that  is  to  say, 
when  I  bring  my  mind  into  a  fair  relation  with  the  minds 
and  purposes  of  its  spiritual  and  material  architects,  — 
I  see  but  one  or  two  criticisms  to  make.  One  is,  that 
it  needs  painted  windows.” 

“  O,  no  !  ”  said  Hilda.  “  They  would  be  quite  incon¬ 
sistent  with  so  much  richness  of  color  in  the  interior  of 
the  church.  Besides,  it  is  a  Gothic  ornament,  and  only 
suited  to  that  style  of  architecture,  which  requires  a  gor¬ 
geous  dimness.” 

“  Nevertlieless,”  continued  the  sculptor,  “yonder  square 
apertures,  filled  with  ordinary  panes  of  glass,  are  quite 
out  of  keeping  with  the  superabundant  splendor  of  every¬ 
thing  about  them.  They  remind  me  of  that  portion  of 
Aladdin’s  palace  which  he  left  unfinished,  in  order  that 
his  royal  father-in-law  might  put  the  finishing  touch. 
Daylight,  in  its  natural  state,  ought  not  to  be  admitted 


152 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


here.  It  should  stream  through  a  brilliant  illusion  of 
saints  and  hierarchies,  and  old  scriptural  images,  and 
symbolized  dogmas,  purple,  blue,  golden,  and  a  broad 
flame  of  scarlet.  Then,  it  would  be  just  such  an  illu¬ 
mination  as  the  Catholic  faith  allows  to  its  believers. 
But,  give  me  — to  live  and  die  in  —  the  pure,  white 
light  of  heaven !  ” 

“Why  do  you  look  so  sorrowfully  at  me?”  asked 
Hilda,  quietly  meeting  his  disturbed  gaze.  “  What 
would  you  say  to  me  ?  I  love  the  white  light  too !  ” 

“1  fancied  so,”  answered  Kenyon.  “Forgive  me, 
Hilda;  but  I  must  needs  speak.  You  seemed  to  me  a 
rare  mixture  of  impressibility,  sympathy,  sensitiveness 
to  many  influences,  with  a  certain  quality  of  common- 
sense  ;  —  no,  not  that,  but  a  higher  and  finer  attribute, 
for  which  1  find  no  better  word.  However  tremulously 
you  might  vibrate,  this  quality,  I  supposed,  would  always 
bring  you  back  to  the  equipoise.  You  were  a  creature 
of  imagination,  and  yet  as  truly  a  New  England  girl  as 
any  with  whom  you  grew  up  in  your  native  village.  If 
there  were  one  person  in  the  world,  whose  native  recti¬ 
tude  of  thought,  and  something  deeper,  more  reliable, 
than  thought,  I  would  have  trusted  against  all  the  arts 
of  a  priesthood,  —  whose  taste  alone,  so  exquisite  and 
sincere  that  it  rose  to  be  a  moral  virtue,  I  would  have 
rested  upon  as  a  sufficient  safeguard,  —  it  was  yourself !  ” 

“  I  am  conscious  of  no  such  high  and  delicate  qualities 
as  you  allow  me,”  answered  Hilda.  “  But  what  have  I 
done  that  a  girl  of  New  England  birth  and  culture,  with 
the  right  sense  that  her  mother  taught  her,  and  the  con¬ 
science  that  she  developed  in  her,  should  not  do  ?  ” 

“  Hilda,  I  saw  you  at  the  confessional !  ”  said  Kenyon. 

“Ah,  well,  my  dear  friend,”  replied  Hilda,  casting 
down  her  eyes,  and  looking  somewhat  confused,  yet  not 


HILDA  AND  A  FRIEND. 


153 


ashamed,  ‘‘you  must  try  to  forgive  me  for  that,  — if  you 
deem  it  wrong,  —  because  it  has  saved  my  reason,  and 
made  me  very  happy.  Had  you  been  here  yesterday,  I 
would  have  confessed  to  you.” 

“  Would  to  Heaven  I  had  !  ”  ejaculated  Kenyon. 

“  I  think,”  Hilda  resumed,  “  I  shall  never  go  to  the 
confessional  again ;  for  thei’e  can  scarcely  come  such  a 
sore  trial  twice  in  my  life.  If  I  had  been  a  wiser  girl,  a 
stronger,  and  a  more  sensible,  very  likely  I  might  not 
have  gone  to  the  confessional  at  all.  It  was  the  sin  of 
others  that  drove  me  thither ;  not  my  own,  though  it 
almost  seemed  so.  Being  what  I  am,  I  must  either  have 
done  what  you  saw  me  doing,  or  have  gone  mad.  Would 
that  have  been  better  ?  ” 

“  Then  you  are  not  a  Catholic  ?  ”  asked  the  sculptor, 
earnestly. 

“Really,  I  do  not  quite  know  what  I  am,”  replied 
Hilda,  encountering  his  eyes  with  a  frank  and  simple 
gaze.  “  I  have  a  great  deal  of  faith,  and  Catholicism 
seems  to  have  a  great  deal  of  good.  Why  should  not  I 
be  a  Catholic,  if  I  find  there  what  I  need,  and  what  I 
cannot  find  elsewhere  ?  The  more  I  see  of  this  worship, 
the  more  I  wonder  at  the  exuberance  with  which  it 
adapts  itself  to  all  the  demands  of  human  infirmity.  If 
its  ministers  were  but  a  little  more  than  human,  above 
all  error,  pure  from  all  iniquity,  what  a  religion  would 
it  be  !  ” 

“  I  need  not  fear  your  conversion  to  the  Catholic 
faith,”  remarked  Kenyon,  “  if  you  are  at  all  aware  of  the 
bitter  sarcasm  implied  in  your  last  observation.  It  is 
very  just.  Only  the  exceeding  ingenuity  of  the  system 
stamps  it  as  the  contrivance  of  man,  or  some  worse  au¬ 
thor  ;  not  an  emanation  of  the  broad  and  simple  wisdom 
from  on  high.” 


7* 


154  ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 

It  may  be  so/’  said  Hilda ;  “  but  I  meant  no  sarcasm.” 

Thus  conversing,  the  two  friends  went  together  down 
the  grand  extent  of  the  nave.  Before  leaving  the  church, 
they  turned  to  admire  again  its  mighty  breadth,  the  re¬ 
moteness  of  the  glory  behind  the  altar,  and  the  effect  of 
visionary  splendor  and  magnificence  imparted  by  the  long 
bars  of  smoky  sunshine,  which  travelled  so  far  before 
arriving  at  a  place  of  rest. 

“  Thank  Heaven  for  having  brought  me  hither !  ”  said 
Hilda,  fervently. 

Kenyon’s  mind  was  deeply  disturbed  by  his  idea  of  her 
Catholic  propensities ;  and  now  what  he  deemed  her  dis¬ 
proportionate  and  misapplied  veneration  for  the  sublime 
edifice  stung  him  into  irreverence. 

“  The  best  thing  I  know  of  St.  Peter’s,”  observed  he, 
“is  its  equable  temperature.  We  are  now  enjoying  the 
coolness  of  last  winter,  which,  a  few  months  hence,  will 
be  the  warmth  of  the  present  summer.  It  has  no  cure,  I 
suspect,  in  all  its  length  and  breadth,  for  a  sick  soul,  but 
it  would  make  an  admirable  atmospheric  hospital  for  sick 
bodies.  What  a  delightful  shelter  would  it  be  for  the  in¬ 
valids  who  throng  to  Home,  where  the  sirocco  steals 
away  their  strengtli,  and  the  tramontana  stabs  them 
through  and  through,  like  cold  steel  with  a  poisoned 
point !  But,  within  these  walls,  the  thermometer  never 
varies.  Winter  and  summer  are  married  at  the  high  altar, 
and  dwell  together  in  perfect  harmony.” 

“Yes,”  said  Hilda;  “and  I  have  always  felt  this  soft, 
unchanging  climate  of  St.  Peter’s  to  be  another  mani¬ 
festation  of  its  sanctity.” 

“  That  is  not  precisely  my  idea,”  replied  Kenyon. 
“  But  what  a  delicious  life  it  would  be,  if  a  colony  of 
people  with  delicate  lungs  —  or  merely  with  delicate  fan¬ 
cies  —  could  take  up  their  abode  in  this  ever-mild  and 


f 


/ 


<Y'  ^ 


>  ^ 


HILDA  AND  A  FRIEND. 


155 


tranquil  air.  These  architectural  tombs  of  the  popes 
might  serve  for  dwellings,  and  each  brazen  sepulchral 
doorway  would  become  a  domestic  threshold.  Then  the 
lover,  if  he  dared,  might  say  to  his  mistress,  ‘  Will  you 
share  my  tomb  with  me  ?  ’  and,  winning  her  soft  consent, 
he  would  lead  her  to  the  altar,  and  thence  to  yonder 
sepulchre  of  Pope  Gregory,  which  should  be  their  nup¬ 
tial  home.  What  a  life  would  be  theirs,  Hilda,  in  then- 
marble  Eden !  ” 

“  It  is  not  kind,  nor  like  yourself,”  said  Hilda,  gently, 
“  to  throw  ridicule  on  emotions  which  are  genuine.  I 
revere  this  glorious  church  for  itself  and  its  purposes ; 
and  love  it,  moreover,  because  here  I  have  found  sweet 
peace,  after  a  great  anguish.” 

“Forgive  me,”  answered  the  sculptor,  “and  I  will 
do  so  no  more.  My  heart  is  not  so  irreverent  as  my 
words.” 

They  went  through  the  piazza  of  St.  Peter’s  and  the 
adjacent  streets,  silently  at  first;  but,  before  reaching 
the  bridge  of  St.  Angelo,  Hilda’s  flow  of  spirits  began 
to  bubble  forth,  like  the  gush  of  a  streamlet  that  has 
been  shut  up  by  frost,  or  by  a  heavy  stone  over  its  source. 
Kenyon  had  never  found  her  so  delightful  as  now ;  so 
softened  out  of  the  chillness  of  her  virgin  pride  ;  so  full 
of  fresh  thoughts,  at  which  he  was  often  moved  to  smile, 
although,  on  turning  them  over  a  little  more,  he  some¬ 
times  discovered  that  they  looked  fanciful  only  because 
so  absolutely  true. 

But,  indeed,  she  was  not  quite  in  a  normal  state. 
Emerging  from  gloom  into  sudden  cheerfulness,  the  effect 
upon  Hilda  was  as  if  she  were  just  now  created.  After 
long  torpor,  receiving  back  her  intellectual  activity,  she 
derived  an  exquisite  pleasure  from  the  use  of  her  facul¬ 
ties,  which  were  set  in  motion  by  causes  that  seemed 


156 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


inadequate.  Slie  continually  brought  to  Kenyon’s  mind 
the  image  of  a  child,  making  its  plaything  of  every  ob¬ 
ject,  but  sporting  in  good  faith,  and  with  a  kind  of  seri¬ 
ousness.  Looking  up,  for  example,  at  the  statue  of  St. 
Michael,  on  the  top  of  Hadrian’s  castellated  tomb,  Hilda 
fancied  an  interview  between  the  Archangel  and  the  old 
emperor’s  ghost,  who  was  naturally  displeased  at  finding 
his  mausoleum,  which  he  had  ordained  for  the  stately 
and  solemn  repose  of  his  ashes,  converted  to  its  present 
purposes. 

“But  St.  Michael,  no  doubt,”  she  thoughtfully  re¬ 
marked,  “would  finally  convince  the  Emperor  Hadrian, 
that*  where  a  warlike  despot  is  sown  as  the  seed,  a  for¬ 
tress  and  a  prison  are  the  only  possible  crop.” 

They  stopped  on  the  bridge  to  look  into  the  swift 
eddying  fiow  of  the  yellow  Tiber,  a  mud-puddle  in  stren¬ 
uous  motion ;  and  Hilda  wondered  whether  the  seven- 
branched  golden  candlestick,  the  holy  candlestick  of  the 
Jews, — which  was  lost  at  the  Ponte  Molle,  in  Constan¬ 
tine’s  time,  —  had  yet  been  swept  as  far  down  the  river 
as  this. 

“  It  probably  stuck  where  it  fell,”  said  the  sculptor ; 
“  and,  by  this  time,  is  imbedded  thirty  feet  deep  in  the 
mud  of  the  Tiber.  Notliing  will  ever  bring  it  to  light 
again.” 

“I  fancy  you  are  mistaken,”  rephed  Hilda,  smiling. 
“  There  was  a  meaning  and  purpose  in  each  of  its  seven 
branches,  and  such  a  candlestick  cannot  be  lost  forever. 
When  it  is  found  again,  and  seven  lights  are  kindled  and 
burning  in  it,  the  whole  world  will  gain  the  illumination 
which  it  needs.  Would  not  this  be  an  admirable  idea 
for  a  mystic  story  or  parable,  or  seven-branched  alle¬ 
gory,  full  of  poetry,  art,  philosophy,  and  religion  ?  It 
shall  be  called  “'The  Recovery  of  the  Sacred  Candlestick.’ 


HILDA  AND  A  FRIEND. 


157 


As  each  branch  is  lighted,  it  shall  have  a  differently  col¬ 
ored  lustre  from  the  other  six ;  and  when  all  the  seven 
are  kindled,  their  radiance  shall  combine  into  the  intense 
white  light  of  truth.” 

“  Positively,  Hilda,  this  is  a  magnificent  conception,” 
cried  Kenyon.  “  The  more  I  look  at  it,  the  brighter  it 
burns.”  ^ 

“I  think  so  too,”  said  Hilda,  enjoying  a  childlike 
pleasure  in  her  own  idea.  “  The  theme  is  better  suited 
for  verse  than  prose ;  and  when  I  go  home  to  America,  I 
will  suggest  it  to  one  of  our  poets.  Or,  seven  poets 
might  write  the  poem  together,  each  lighting  a  separate 
branch  of  the  Sacred  Candlestick.” 

“  Then  you  think  of  going  home  ?  ”  Kenyon  asked. 

“  Only  yesterday,”  slie  replied,  “  I  longed  to  flee  away. 
Now,  all  is  changed,  and,  being  happy  again,  I  should 
feel  deep  regret  at  leaving  the  Pictorial  Land.  But,  I 
cannot  tell.  In  Rome,  there  is  something  dreary  and 
awful,  which  we  can  never  quite  escape.  At  least,  I 
thought  so  yesterday.” 

When  they  reached  the  Via  Portoghese,  and  approached 
Hilda’s  tower,  the  doves,  who  were  waiting  aloft,  flung 
themselves  upon  the  air,  and  came  floating  down  about 
her  head.  The  girl  caressed  them,  and  responded  to 
their  cooings  with  similar  sounds  from  her  own  lips,  and 
with  words  of  endearment;  and  their  joyful  flutterings 
and  airy  little  flights,  evidently  impelled  by  pure  exu¬ 
berance  of  spirits,  seemed  to  show  that  the  doves  had 
a  real  sympathy  with  their  mistress’s  state  of  mind.  Por 
peace  had  descended  upon  her  like  a  dove. 

Bidding  the  sculptor  farewell,  Hilda  climbed  her  tower, 
and  came  forth  upon  its  summit  to  trim  the  Virgin’s 
lamp.  The  doves,  well  knowing  her  custom,  had  flown 
up  thither  to  meet  her,  and  again  hovered  about  her 


158 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


head ;  and  very  lovely  was  her  aspect,  in  the  evening 
sunlight,  which  had  little  further  to  do  with  the  world, 
just  then,  save  to  fling  a  golden  glory  on  Hilda’s  hair, 
and  vanish. 

Turning  her  eyes  down  into  the  dusky  street  which  she 
had  just  quitted,  Hilda  saw  the  sculptor  still  there,  and 
waved  her  hand  to  him. 

“  How  sad  and  dim  he  looks,  down  there  in  that  dreary 
street !  ”  she  said  to  herself.  “  Something  weighs  upon 
his  spirits.  Would  I  could  comfort  him  !  ” 

“  How  like  a  spirit  she  looks,  aloft  there,  with  the 
evening  glory  round  her  head,  and  those  winged  creatures 
claiming  her  as  akin  to  them  !  ”  thought  Kenyon,  on  his 
part.  “  How  far  above  me  !  how  unattainable  !  Ah,  if  I 
could  lift  myself  to  her  region  !  Or,  — if  it  be  not  a  sin 
to  wish  it,  —  would  that  I  might  draw  her  down  to  an 
earthly  fireside  1  ” 

What  a  sweet  reverence  is  that,  when  a  young  man 
deems  his  mistress  a  little  more  than  mortal,  and  almost 
chides  himself  for  longing  to  bring  her  close  to  his  heart ! 
A  trifling  circumstance,  but  such  as  lovers  make  mueh  of, 
gave  him  hope.  One  of  the  doves,  which  had  been  rest¬ 
ing  on  Hilda’s  shoulder,  suddenly  flew  downward,  as  if 
recognizing  him  as  its  mistress’s  dear  friend ;  and  perhaps 
commissioned  with  an  errand  of  regard,  brushed  his  up¬ 
turned  face  with  its  wings,  and  again  soared  aloft. 

The  sculptor  watched  the  bird’s  return,  and  saw  Hilda 
greet  it  with  a  smile. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SNOWDROPS  AND  MAIDENLY  DELIGHTS. 

being  still  considerably  earlier  than  the  period 
it  which  artists  and  tourists  are  accustomed  to 
Lssemble  in  Rome,  the  sculptor  and  Hilda  found 
;  comparatively  alone  there.  The  dense  mass 
of  native  Roman  life,  in  the  midst  of  which  they  were, 
served  to  press  them  nearer  to  one  another.  It  was  as 
if  they  had  been  thrown  together  on  a  desert  island. 
Or,  they  seemed  to  have  wandered,  by  some  strange 
chance,  out  of  the  common  world,  and  encountered  each 
other  in  a  depopulated  city,  where  there  were  streets  of 
lonely  palaces,  and  unreckonable  treasures  of  beautiful 
and  admirable  things,  of  which  they  two  became  the  sole 
inheritors. 

In  such  circumstances,  Hilda’s  gentle  reserve  must  have 
been  stronger  than  her  kindly  disposition  permitted,  if  the 
friendship  between  Kenyon  and  herself  had  not  grown  as 
warm  as  a  maiden’s  friendship  can  ever  be,  without  abso¬ 
lutely  and  avowedly  blooming  into  love.  On  the  sculp¬ 
tor’s  side,  the  amaranthine  flower  was  already  in  full  blow. 
Rut  it  is  very  beautiful,  though  the  lover’s  heart  may  grow 
chill  at  the  perception,  to  see  how  the  snow  will  sometimes 
huger  in  a  virgin’s  breast,  even  after  the  spring  is  well 


themselve: 


160 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


advanced.  In  such  alpine  soils,  the  summer  will  not  he 
anticipated ;  we  seek  vainly  for  passionate  flowers,  and 
blossoms  of  fervid  hue  and  spicy  fragrance,  finding  only 
snowdrops  and  sunless  violets,  when  it  is  almost  the  full 
season  for  the  crimson  rose. 

With  so  mueh  tenderness  as  Hilda  had  in  her  nature, 
it  was  strange  that  she  so  reluctantly  admitted  the  idea  of 
love ;  especially,  as,  in  the  sculptor,  she  found  both  con¬ 
geniality  and  variety  of  taste,  and  likenesses  and  differ¬ 
ences  of  character ;  these  being  as  essential  as  those  to 
any  poignancy  of  mutual  emotion. 

So  Hilda,  as  far  as  Kenyon  could  discern,  still  did  not 
love  him,  though  she  admitted  him  within  the  quiet  circle 
of  her  affections  as  a  dear  friend  and  trusty  counsellor. 
If  we  knew  what  is  best  for  us,  or  could  be  content  with 
what  is  reasonably  good,  the  seulptor  might  well  have 
been  satisfied,  for  a  season,  with  this  calm  intimacy,  which 
so  sweetly  kept  him  a  stranger  in  her  heart,  and  a  cere¬ 
monious  guest ;  and  yet  allowed  him  the  free  enjoyment 
of  all  but  its  deeper  recesses.  The  flowers  that  grow 
outside  of  those  inner  sanetities  have  a  wild,  hasty  charm, 
which  it  is  well  to  prove ;  there  may  be  sweeter  ones 
within  the  sacred  precinct,  but  none  that  will  die  while 
you  are  handling  them,  and  bequeathe  you  a  delicious 
legacy,  as  these  do,  in  the  perception  of  their  evanescence 
and  unreality. 

And  this  may  be  the  reason,  after  all,  why  Hilda,  like 
so  many  other  maidens,  lingered  on  the  hither  side  of 
passion  ;  her  finer  instinct  and  keener  sensibility  made 
her  enjoy  those  pale  delights  in  a  degree  of  which  men 
are  incapable.  She  hesitated  to  grasp  a  richer  happiness, 
as  possessing  already  sueh  measure  of  it  as  her  heart 
could  hold,  and  of  a  quality  most  agreeable  to  her  virgin 
tastes. 


SNOWDROPS  AND  MAIDENLY  DELIGHTS.  161 


Certainly,  they  both  were  very  happy.  Kenyon’s  gen¬ 
ius,  unconsciously  wrought  upon  by  Hilda’s  influence,  took 
a  more  delicate  character  than  heretofore.  He  modelled, 
among  other  things,  a  beautiful  little  statue  of  maiden¬ 
hood  gathering  a  snowdrop.  It  was  never  put  into  mar¬ 
ble,  however,  because  the  sculptor  soon  recognized  it  as 
one  of  those  fragile  creations  which  are  true  only  to  the 
moment  that  produces  them,  and  are  wronged  if  we  try 
to  imprison  their  airy  excellence  in  a  permanent  mate¬ 
rial. 

On  her  part,  Hilda  returned  to  her  customary  occupa¬ 
tions  with  a  fresh  love  for  them,  and  yet  with  a  deeper 
look  into  the  heart  of  things ;  such  as  those  necessarily 
acquire,  who  have  passed  from  picture-galleries  into  dun¬ 
geon  gloom,  and  thence  come  back  to  the  picture-gallery 
again.  It  is  questionable  whether  she  was  ever  so  perfect 
a  copyist  thenceforth.  She  could  not  yield  herself  up  to 
the  painter  so  unreservedly  as  in  times  past ;  her  charac¬ 
ter  had  developed  a  sturdier  quality,  which  made  her  less 
pliable  to  the  influence  of  other  minds.  She  saw  into  the 
picture  as  profoundly  as  ever,  and  perhaps  more  so,  but 
not  with  the  devout  sympathy  that  had  formerly  given  her 
entire  possession  of  the  old  master’s  idea.  She  had  known 
such  a  reality,  that  it  taught  her  to  distinguish  inevitably 
the  large  portion  that  is  unreal,  in  every  work  of  art. 
Instructed  by  sorrow,  she  felt  that  there  is  something  be¬ 
yond  almost  all  which  pictorial  genius  has  produced ;  and 
she  never  forgot  those  sad  wanderings  from  gallery  to 
gallery,  and  from  church  to  church,  where  she  had  vainly 
sought  a  type  of  the  virgin  mother,  or  the  Saviour,  or 
saint,  or  martyr,  which  a  soul  in  extreme  need  might 
recognize  as  the  adequate  one. 

How,  indeed,  should  she  have  found  such  ?  How  could 
holiness  be  revealed  to  the  artist  of  an  age  when  the 

K 


162 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


greatest  of  them  put  genius  and  imagination  in  the  place 
of  spiritual  insight,  and  when,  from  the  pope  downward, 
all  Christendom  was  corrupt  ? 

Meanwhile,  months  wore  away,  and  Rome  reeeived 
back  that  large  portion  of  its  life-blood  which  runs  in  the 
veins  of  its  foreign  and  temporary  population.  English 
visitors  established  themselves  in  the  hotels,  and  in  all  the 
sunny  suites  of  apartments,  in  the  streets  convenient  to 
the  Piazza  di  Spagna;  the  English  tongue  was  heard 
familiarly  along  the  Corso,  and  English  children  sported 
in  the  Pincian  Gardens. 

The  native  Romans,  on  the  other  hand,  like  the  butter¬ 
flies  and  grasshoppers,  resigned  themselves  to  the  short, 
sharp  misery  which  winter  brings  to  a  people  whose  ar¬ 
rangements  are  made  almost  exclusively  with  a  view  to 
summer.  Keeping  no  fire  within-doors,  except  possibly  a 
spark  or  two  in  the  kitchen,  they  crept  out  of  their  cheer¬ 
less  houses  into  the  narrow,  sunless,  sepulchral  streets, 
bringing  their  firesides  along  with  them,  in  the  shape  of 
little  earthen  pots,  vases,  or  pipkins,  full  of  lighted  char¬ 
coal  and  warm  ashes,  over  which  they  held  their  tingling 
finger-ends.  Even  in  this  half-torpid  wretchedness,  they 
still  seemed  to  dread  a  pestilence  in  the  sunshine,  and 
kept  on  the  shady  side  of  the  piazzas,  as  scrupulously  as 
in  summer.  Through  the  open  doorways  —  no  need  to 
shut  them  when  the  weather  within  was  bleaker  than 
without  —  a  glimpse  into  the  interior  of  their  dwellings 
showed  the  uncarpeted  brick  floors,  as  dismal  as  the 
pavement  of  a  tomb. 

They  drew  their  old  cloaks  about  them,  nevertheless, 
and  threw  the  corners  over  their  shoulders,  with  the 
dignity  of  attitude  and  action  that  have  come  down  to 
these  modern  citizens,  as  their  sole  inheritance  from  the 
togaed  nation.  Someliow  or  other,  they  managed  to  keep 


SNOWDROPS  AND  MAIDENLY  DELIGHTS.  163 


up  their  poor,  frost-bitten  hearts  against  the  pitiless  at¬ 
mosphere  with  a  quiet  and  uncomplaining  endurance  that 
really  seems  the  most  respectable  point  in  the  present 
Roman  character.  For,  in  New  England,  or  in  Russia, 
or  scarcely  in  a  hut  of  the  Esquimaux,  there  is  no  such 
discomfort  to  be  borne  as  by  Romans  in  wintry  weather, 
when  the  orange-trees  bear  icy  fruit  in  the  gardens ;  and 
when  the  rims  of  all  the  fountains  are  shaggy  with  icicles, 
and  the  fountain  of  Trevi  skimmed  almost  across  with  a 
glassy  surface ;  and  when  there  is  a  slide  in  the  piazza 
of  St.  Peter’s,  and  a  fringe  of  brown,  frozen  foam  along 
the  eastern  shore  of  the  Tiber,  and  sometimes  a  fall  of 
great  snow-flakes  into  the  dreary  lanes  and  alleys  of  the 
miserable  city.  Cold  blasts,  that  bring  death  with  them, 
now  blow  upon  the  shivering  invalids,  who  came  hither 
in  the  hope  of  breathing  balmy  airs. 

Wherever  we  pass  our  summers,  may  all  our  inclement 
months,  from  November  to  April,  henceforth  be  spent  in 
some  country  that  recognizes  winter  as  an  integral  por¬ 
tion  of  its  year ! 

Now,  too,  there  was  especial  discomfort  in  the  stately 
picture-galleries,  where  nobody,  indeed,  —  not  the  princely 
or  priestly  founders,  nor  any  who  have  inherited  their 
cheerless  magnificence,  —  ever  dreamed  of  such  an  impos¬ 
sibility  as  fireside  warmth,  since  those  great  palaces  were 
built.  Hilda,  therefore,  finding  her  fingers  so  much  be¬ 
numbed  that  the  spiritual  influence  could  not  be  trans¬ 
mitted  to  them,  was  persuaded  to  leave  her  easel  before 
a  picture,  on  one  of  these  wintry  days,  and  pay  a  visit  to 
Kenyon’s  studio.  But  neither  was  the  studio  anything 
better  than  a  dismal  den,  with  its  marble  shapes  sliiver- 
ing  around  the  walls,  cold  as  the  snow-images  which  the 
sculptor  used  to  model,  in  his  boyhood,  and  sadly  behold 
them  weep  themselves  away  at  the  first  thaw. 


164 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Kenyon’s  Roman  artisans,  all  this  while,  had  been  at 
work  on  the  Cleopatra.  The  fierce  Egyptian  queen  had 
now  struggled  almost  out  of  the  imprisoning  stone;  or, 
rather,  the  workmen  had  found  her  within  the  mass  of 
marble,  imprisoned  there  by  magic,  but  still  fervid  to  the 
touch  with  fiery  life,  the  fossil  woman  of  an  age  that  pro¬ 
duced  statelier,  stronger,  and  more  passionate  creatures 
than  our  own.  You  already  felt  her  compressed  heat, 
and  were  aware  of  a  tiger-like  character  even  in  her  re¬ 
pose.  If  Octavius  should  make  his  appearance,  though 
the  marble  still  held  her  within  its  embrace,  it  was  evident 
that  she  would  tear  herself  forth  in  a  twinkling,  either  to 
spring  enraged  at  his  throat,  or,  sinking  into  his  arms,  to 
make  one  more  proof  of  her  rich  blandishments,  or,  fall¬ 
ing  lowly  at  his  feet,  to  try  the  efficacy  of  a  woman’s 
tears. 

‘‘  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you  how  much  I  admire  this 
statue,”  said  Hilda.  “No  other  sculptor  could  have 
done  it.” 

“  This  is  very  sweet  for  me  to  hear,”  replied  Kenyon ; 
“  and  since  your  reserve  keeps  you  from  saying  more, 
I  shall  imagine  you  expressing  everything  that  an  artist 
would  wish  to  hear  said  about  his  work.” 

“  You  will  not  easily  go  beyond  my  genuine  opinion,” 
answered  Hilda,  with  a  smile. 

“  All,  your  kind  word  makes  me  very  happy,”  said  the 
sculptor,  “and  I  need  it,  just  now,  on  behalf  of  my  Cleo¬ 
patra.  That  inevitable  period  has  come,  —  for  I  have 
found  it  inevitable,  in  regard  to  all  my  works,  —  when  I 
look  at  what  I  fancied  to  be  a  statue,  lacking  only  breath 
to  make  it  live,  and  find  it  a  mere  lump  of  senseless  stone, 
into  which  I  have  not  really  succeeded  in  moulding  the 
spiritual  part  of  my  idea.  I  should  like,  now,  —  only 
it  would  be  such  shameful  treatment  for  a  discrowned 


SNOWDROPS  AND  MAIDENLY  DELIGHTS.  165 


queen,  and  my  own  offspring  too,  —  I  should  like  to  hit 
poor  Cleopatra  a  bitter  blow  on  her  Egyptian  nose  with 
this  mallet” 

“  That  is  a  blow  which  all  statues  seem  doomed  to  re¬ 
ceive,  sooner  or  later,  though  seldom  from  the  hand  that 
sculptured  them,”  said  Hilda,  laughing.  “  But  you  must 
not  let  yourself  be  too  much  disheartened  by  the  decay 
of  your  faith  in  what  you  produce.  I  have  heard  a  poet 
express  similar  distaste  for  his  own  most  exquisite  poem, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  this  final  despair,  and  sense  of  short¬ 
coming,  must  always  be  the  reward  and  punishment  of 
those  who  try  to  grapple  with  a  great  or  beautiful  idea. 
It  only  proves  that  you  have  been  able  to  imagine  things 
too  high  for  mortal  faculties  to  execute.  The  idea  leaves 
you  an  imperfect  image  of  itself,  which  you  at  first  mis¬ 
take  for  the  ethereal  reality,  but  soon  find  that  the  latter 
has  escaped  out  of  your  closest  embrace.” 

“  And  the  only  consolation  is,”  remarked  Kenyon,  ‘‘  that 
the  blurred  and  imperfect  image  may  still  make  a  very 
respectable  appearance  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  have  not 
seen  the  original.” 

“More  than  that,”  rejoined  Hilda;  “for  there  is  a 
class  of  spectators  whose  sympathy  will  help  them  to  see 
the  perfeet  through  a  mist  of  imperfection.  Nobody,  I 
think,  ought  to  read  poetry,  or  look  at  pictures  or  statues, 
who  cannot  find  a  great  deal  more  in  them  than  the  poet 
or  artist  has  actually  expressed.  Their  highest  merit  is 
suggestiveness.” 

“  You,  Hilda,  are  yourself  the  only  critic  in  whom  I 
have  much  faith,”  said  Kenyon.  “  Had  you  condemned 
Cleopatra,  nothing  should  have  saved  her.” 

“  You  invest  me  with  such  an  awful  responsibility,”  she 
replied,  “  that  I  shall  not  dare  to  say  a  single  word  about 
your  other  works.” 


166 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“At  least/’  said  the  sculptor,  “tell  me  whether  you 
recognize  this  bust  ?  ” 

He  pointed  to  a  bust  of  Donatello.  It  was  not  the  one 
which  Kenyon  had  begun  to  model  at  Monte  Beni,  but  a 
reminiscence  of  the  Count’s  face,  wrought  under  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  all  the  sculptor’s  knowledge  of  his  history,  and 
of  his  personal  and  hereditary  cliaracter.  It  stood  on  a 
wooden  pedestal,  not  nearly  finished,  but  with  fine,  white 
dust  and  small  chips  of  marble  scattered  about  it,  and 
itself  incrusted  all  round  with  the  white,  shapeless  sub¬ 
stance  of  the  block.  In  the  midst  appeared  the  features, 
lacking  sharpness,  and  very  much  resembling  a  fossil 
countenance,  • — ■  but  we  have  already  used  this  simile,  in 
reference  to  Cleopatra,  —  with  the  accumulations  of  I'ong- 
past  ages  clinging  to  it. 

And  yet,  strange  to  say,  the  face  had  an  expression, 
and  a  more  recognizable  one  than  Kenyon  had  succeeded 
in  putting  into  the  clay  model  at  Monte  Beni.  The 
reader  is  probably  acquainted  with  Thorwaldsen’s  three¬ 
fold  analogy,  —  the  clay  model,  the  Life ;  the  plaster  cast, 
the  Death ;  and  the  sculptured  marble,  the  Besurrection, 
—  and  it  seemed  to  be  made  good  by  the  spirit  that 
was  kindling  up  these  imperfect  features,  like  a  lambent 
flame. 

“  I  was  not  quite  sure,  at  first  glance,  that  I  knew  the 
face,”  observed  Hilda  ;  “  the  likeness  surely  is  not  a  strik¬ 
ing  one.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  external  resemblance, 
still,  to  the  features  of  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles,  between 
whom  and  Donatello,  you  know,  we  once  insisted  that 
there  was  a  perfect  twin-brotherhood.  But  the  expres¬ 
sion  is  now  so  very  different !  ” 

“  What  do  you  take  it  to  be  ?  ”  asked  the  sculptor. 

“  I  hardly  know  how  to  define  it,”  she  answered. 
“But  it  has  an  effect  as  if  I  could  see  this  countenance 


SNOWDROPS  AND  MAIDENLY  DELIGHTS.  167 


gradually  brightening  while  I  look  at  it.  It  gives  the 
impression  of  a  growing  intellectual  power  and  moral 
sense.  Donatello’s  face  used  to  evince  little  more  than  a 
genial,  pleasurable  sort  of  vivacity,  and  capability  of  en¬ 
joyment.  But,  here,  a  soul  is  being  breathed  into  him ; 
it  is  the  Faun,  but  advancing  towards  a  state  of  higher 
development.” 

“  Hilda,  do  you  see  all  this  ?  ”  exclaioied  Kenyon,  in 
considerable  surprise.  I  may  have  had  such  an  idea  in 
my  mind,  but  was  quite  unaware  that  1  had  succeeded 
in  conveying  it  into  the  marble.” 

“Forgive  me,”  said  Hilda,  “but  I  question  whether 
this  striking  effect  has  been  brouglit  about  by  any  skill 
or  p’urpose  on  the  sculptor’s  part.  Is  it  not,  perhaps,  the 
chance  result  of  the  bust  being  just  so  far  shaped  out,  in 
tlie  marble,  as  the  process  of  moral  growth  had  advanced 
in  the  original  ?  A  few  more  strokes  of  the  chisel  might 
change  the  whole  expression,  and  so  spoil  it  for  what  it  is 
now  worth.” 

“  I  believe  you  are  right,”  answered  Kenyon,  thought¬ 
fully  examining  his  work;  “and,  strangely  enough,  it 
was  the  very  expression  that  I  tried  unsuccessfully  to 
produce  in  the  clay  model.  Well ;  not  another  chip 
shall  be  struck  from  the  marble.” 

And,  accordingly,  Donatello’s  bust  (like  that  rude, 
rough  mass  of  the  head  of  Brutus,  by  Michael  Angelo,  at 
Florence)  has  ever  since  remained  in  an  unfinished  state. 
Most  spectators  mistake  it  for  an  unsuccessful  attempt 
towards  copying  the  features  of  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles. 
One  observer  in  a  thousand  is  conscious  of  something 
more,  and  lingers  long  over  this  mysterious  face,  depart¬ 
ing  from  it  reluctantly,  and  with  many  a  glance  thrown 
backward.  What  perplexes  him  is  the  riddle  that  he  sees 
propounded  there  ;  the  riddle  of  the  soul’s  growth,  taking 


168 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


its  first  impulse  amid  remorse  and  pain,  and  struggling 
through  the  incrustations  of  the  senses.  It  was  the  con¬ 
templation  of  this  imperfect  portrait  of  Donatello  that 
originally  interested  us  in  his  history,  and  impelled  us 
to  elicit  from  Kenyon  what  he  knew  of  his  friend’s  ad¬ 
ventures. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


EEMINISCENCES  OF  MIEIAM. 


HEN  Hilda  and  himself  turned  away  from  the 
niifinislied  bust,  the  sculptor’s  mind  still  dvrelt 
upon  the  reminiscences  which  it  suggested. 

“  You  have  not  seen  Donatello  recently,”  he  remarked, 
“  and  therefore  cannot  be  aware  how  sadly  he  is  changed.” 

“No  wonder  !  ”  exelaimed  Hilda,  growing  pale. 

The  terrible  seene  which  she  had  witnessed,  when  Dona¬ 
tello’s  face  gleamed  out  in  so  fierce  a  light,  came  back 
upon  her  memory,  almost  for  the  first  time  since  she 
knelt  at  the  eonfessional.  Hilda,  as  is  sometimes  the 
case  with  persons  whose  delicate  organization  requires  a 
peculiar  safeguard,  had  an  elastic  faculty  of  throwing  off 
such  recollections  as  would  be  too  painful  for  endurance. 
The  first  shock  of  Donatello’s  and  Miriam’s  crime  had, 
indeed,  broken  through  the  frail  defence  of  this  voluntary 
forgetfulness ;  but,  once  enabled  to  relieve  herself  of  the 
ponderous  anguish  over  which  she  had  so  long  brooded, 
she  had  practised  a  subtile  watchfulness  in  preventing  its 
return. 

“No  wonder,  do  you  say  ?  ”  repeated  the  sculptor, 
looking  at  her  with  interest,  but  not  exactly  with  sur¬ 
prise  ;  for  he  had  long  suspected  that  Hilda  had  a  painful 

VOL.  ir.  8 


170  ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 

knowledge  of  events  wliich  he  himself  little  more  than 
surmised.  “  Then  you  know  !  —  you  have  heard  !  But 
what  can  you  possibly  have  heard,  and  through  what 
channel  ?  ” 

“Nothing!”  replied  Hilda,  faintly.  “Not  one  word 
has  reached  my  ears  from  the  lips  of  any  human  being. 
Let  us  never  speak  of  it  again  I  No,  no  1  never  again  !  ” 
“  And  Miriam !  ”  said  Kenyon,  with  irrepressible  in¬ 
terest.  “  Is  it  also  forbidden  to  speak  of  her  ?  ” 

“  Hush  1  do  not  even  utter  her  name  I  Try  not  to 
think  of  it  1  ”  Hilda  whispered.  “  It  may  bring  terrible 
consequences  1  ” 

“  My  dear  Hilda !  ”  exclaimed  Kenyon,  regarding  her 
with  wonder  and  deep  sympathy.  “My  sweet  friend, 
have  you  had  this  secret  hidden  in  your  delicate,  maid¬ 
enly  heart,  through  all  these  many  months  !  No  wonder 
that  your  life  was  withering  out  of  you.” 

“It  was  so,  indeed  !  ”  said  Hilda,  shuddering.  “Even 
now,  I  sicken  at  the  recollection.” 

“  And  how  could  it  have  come  to  your  knowledge  ?  ” 
continued  the  sculptor.  “But,  no  matter!  Ho  not  tor¬ 
ture  yourself  with  referring  to  the  subject.  Only,  if  at 
any  time  it  should  be  a  relief  to  you,  remember  that  we 
can  speak  freely  together,  for  Miriam  has  herself  sug¬ 
gested  a  confidence  between  us.” 

“  Miriam  has  suggested  this !  ”  exclaimed  Hilda.  “  Yes, 
I  remember,  now,  her  advising  that  the  secret  should  be 
shared  with  you.  But  I  have  survived  the  death-struggle 
that  it  cost  me,  and  need  make  no  further  revelations. 
And  Miriam  has  spoken  to  you  !  What  manner  of  wo¬ 
man  can  she  be,  who,  after  sharing  in  such  a  deed,  can 
make  it  a  topic  of  conversation  with  her  friends  ?  ” 

“  Ah,  Hilda,”  replied  Kenyon,  “  you  do  not  know,  for 
you  could  never  learn  it  from  your  own  heart,  which  is 


EEMINISCENCES  OF  MIRIAM. 


171 


all  purity  and  rectitude,  what  a  mixture  of  good  there 
may  be  in  things  evil ;  and  how  the  greatest  criminal,  if 
you  look  at  his  conduct  from  his  own  point  of  view,  or 
from  any  side-point,  may  seem  not  so  unquestionably 
guilty,  after  all.  So  with  Miriam ;  so  with  Donatello. 
They  are,  perhaps,  partners  in  what  we  must  call  awful 
guilt ;  and  yet,  I  will  own  to  you,  — when  I  think  of  the 
original  cause,  the  motives,  the  feelings,  the  sudden  con¬ 
currence  of  circumstances  thrusting  them  onward,  the 
urgency  of  the  moment,  and  the  sublime  unselfishness  on 
either  part,  —  I  know  not  well  how  to  distinguish  it  from 
much  that  the  world  calls  heroism.  Might  we  not  ren¬ 
der  some  such  verdict  as  this  ?  —  ‘  Worthy  of  Death,  but 
not  unworthy  of  Love  !  ’  ” 

“Never!”  answered  Hilda,  looking  at  the  matter 
through  the  clear  crystal  medium  of  lier  own  integrity. 
“  This  thing,  as  regards  its  causes,  is  all  a  mystery  to 
me,  and  must  remain  so.  But  there  is,  I  believe,  only 
one  right  and  one  wrong;  and  I  do  not  understand,  and 
may  God  keep  me  from  ever  understanding,  how  two 
tilings  so  totally  unlike  can  be  mistaken  for  one  another ; 
nor  how  two  mortal  foes,  as  Right  and  Wrong  surely  are, 
can  work  together  in  the  same  deed.  This  is  my  faith  ; 
and  I  should  be  led  astray,  if  you  could  persuade  me  to 
give  it  up.” 

“  Alas  for  poor  human  nature,  then !  ”  said  Kenyon, 
sadly,  and  yet  half  smiling  at  Hilda’s  unworldly  and  im¬ 
practicable  theory.  “  I  always  felt  you,  my  dear  friend, 
a  terribly  severe  judge,  and  have  been  perplexed  to  con¬ 
ceive  how  such  tender  sympathy  could  coexist  with  the 
remorselessness  of  a  steel  blade.  You  need  no  mercy, 
and  therefore  know  not  how  to  show  any.” 

“  That  sounds  like  a  bitter  gibe,”  said  Hilda,  with  the 
tears  springing  into  her  eyes.  “But  I  cannot  help  it. 


172 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


It  does  not  alter  my  pereeption  of  the  truth.  If  there  he 
any  such  dreadful  mixture  of  good  and  evil  as  you  affirm, 
—  and  which  appears  to  me  almost  more  shocking  than 
pure  evil,  —  then  the  good  is  turned  to  poison,  not  the 
evil  to  wholesomeness.” 

The  sculptor  seemed  disposed  to  say  something  more, 
but  yielded  to  the  gentle  steadfastness  with  which  Hilda 
declined  to  listen.  She  grew  very  sad ;  for  a  reference 
to  this  one  dismal  topic  had  set,  as  it  were,  a  prison-door 
ajar,  and  allowed  a  throng  of  torturing  recollections  to 
escape  from  their  dungeons  into  the  pure  air  and  white 
radiance  of  her  soul.  She  bade  Kenyon  a  briefer  fare¬ 
well  than  ordinary,  and  went  homeward  to  her  tower. 

In  spite  of  her  efforts  to  withdraw  them  to  other  sub¬ 
jects,  her  thoughts  dwelt  upon  Miriam ;  and,  as  had  not 
heretofore  happened,  they  brought  with  them  a  painful 
doubt  whether  a  wrong  had  not  been  committed,  on  Hil¬ 
da’s  part,  towards  the  friend  once  so  beloved.  Something 
that  Miriam  had  said,  in  their  final  conversation,  recurred 
to  her  memory,  and  seemed  now  to  deserve  more  weight 
than  Hilda  had  assigned  to  it,  in  her  horror  at  the  crime 
just  perpetrated.  It  was  not  that  the  deed  looked  less 
wicked  and  terrible  in  the  retrospect ;  but  she  asked  her¬ 
self  whether  there  were  not  other  questions  to  be  con¬ 
sidered,  aside  from  that  single  one  of  Miriam’s  guilt  or 
innocence;  as,  for  example,  whether  a  close  bond  of 
friendship,  in  which  we  once  voluntarily  engage,  ought 
to  be  severed  on  account  of  any  unworthiiiess,  which  we 
subsequently  detect  in  our  friend.  For,  in  these  unions 
of  hearts,  —  call  them  marriage,  or  whatever  else,  —  we 
take  each  other  for  better  for  worse.  Availing  ourselves 
of  our  friend’s  intimate  affection,  we  pledge  our  own,  as 
to  be  relied  upon  in  every  emergency.  And  what  sadder, 
more  desperate  emergency  could  there  be,  than  had  be- 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MIRIA.M. 


173 


fallen  Miriam  ?  Who  more  need  the  tender  succor  of 
the  innocent,  than  wretclies  stained  with  guilt  !  And 
must  a  selfish  care  for  the  spotlessness  of  our  owii  gar¬ 
ments  keep  ns  from  pressing  the  guilty  ones  close  to  our 
hearts,  wherein,  for  the  very  reason  that  we  are  innocent, 
lies  their  securest  refuge  from  further  ill  ? 

It  was  a  sad  tiling  for  Hilda  to  find  this  moral  enigma 
propounded  to  her  conscience;  and  to  feel  that,  which¬ 
ever  way  she  might  settle  it,  there  would  be  a  cry  of 
wrong  on  the  other  side.  Still,  the  idea  stubbornly  came 
back,  that  the  tie  between  Miriam  and  herself  had  been 
real,  the  alfection  true,  and  that  therefore  the  implied 
compact  w'as  not  to  be  shaken  off. 

“  Miriam  loved  me  well,”  thought  Hilda,  remorsefully, 
‘‘  and  I  failed  her  at  her  sorest  need.” 

Miriam  loved  her  well ;  and  not  less  ardent  had  been 
the  affection  which  Miriam’s  warm,  tender,  and  generous 
characteristics  had  excited  in  Hilda’s  more  reserved  and 
quiet  nature.  It  had  never  been  extinguished;  for,  in 
part,  the  wretchedness  which  Hilda  had  since  endured 
was  but  the  struggle  and  writhing  of  her  sensibility,  still 
yearning  towards  her  friend.  And  now,  at  the  earliest 
encouragement,  it  awoke  again,  and  cried  out  piteously, 
complaining  of  the  violence  that  had  been  done  it. 

Recurring  to  the  delinquencies  of  which  she  fancied 
(we  say  “fancied,”  because  we  do  not  unhesitatingly  adopt 
Hilda’s  present  view,  but  rather  suppose  her  misled  by 
her  feelings)  — of  which  she  fancied  herself  guilty  towards 
lier  friend,  she  suddenly  remembered  a  sealed  packet  that 
Miriam  had  confided  to  her.  It  had  been  put  into  her 
hands  with  earnest  injunctions  of  secrecy  and  care,  and  if 
unclaimed  after  a  certain  period,  was  to  be  delivered  ae- 
cording  to  its  address.  Hilda  had  forgotten  it ;  or,  rather, 
she  had  kept  the  thought  of  this  commission  in  the  back- 


174 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


jrround  of  her  consciousness,  with  all  other  thoughts  re¬ 
ferring  to  Miriam. 

But  now  the  recollection  of  this  packet,  and  the  evident 
stress  which  Miriam  laid  upon  its  delivery  at  the  specified 
time,  impelled  Hilda  to  hurry  up  the  staircase  of  her 
tower,  dreading  lest  the  period  should  already  have 
elapsed. 

No  ;  the  hour  had  not  gone  by,  but  was  on  the  very 
point  of  passing.  Hilda  read  the  brief  note  of  instruction, 
on  a  corner  of  the  envelope,  and  diseovered,  that,  in  case 
of  Miriam’s  absence  from  Borne,  the  packet  was  to  be 
taken  to  its  destination  that  very  day. 

“  How  nearly  I  had  violated  my  promise  !  ”  said  Hilda. 

And,  since  we  are  separated  forever,  it  has  the  sacred¬ 
ness  of  an  injunction  from  a  dead  friend.  There  is  no 
time  to  be  lost.” 

So  Hilda  set  forth  in  the  decline  of  the  afternoon,  and 
pursued  her  way  towards  the  quarter  of  the  city  in  which 
stands  the  Palazzo  Cenci.  Her  habit  of  self-reliance  was 
so  simply  strong,  so  natural,  and  now  so  well  establislied 
by  long  use,  that  the  idea  of  peril  seldom  or  never  oc¬ 
curred  to  Hilda,  in  her  lonely  life. 

She  differed,  in  this  particular,  from  the  generality  of 
her  sex  ;  although  the  customs  and  character  of  her  native 
land  often  produce  women  who  meet  the  world  with  gen¬ 
tle  fearlessness,  and  discover  that  its  terrors  have  been 
absurdly  exaggerated  by  the  tradition  of  mankind.  In 
ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  the  apprehensiveness 
of  women  is  quite  gratuitous.  Even  as  matters  now 
stand,  they  are  really  safer  in  perilous  situations  and 
emergencies,  than  men ;  and  might  be  still  more  so,  if 
they  trusted  themselves  more  confidingly  to  the  chivalry 
of  manhood.  In  all  her  wanderings  about  Borne,  Hilda 
had  gone  and  returned  as  securely  as  she  had  been  accus- 


»v 


W 

‘I'k 

*; 

4\ 

A 


EEMINISCENCES  of  MIRIAM.  175 

tomed  to  tread  tlie  familiar  street  of  lier  New  England 
village,  where  every  lace  wore  a  look  of  recognition. 
With  respect  to  whatever  was  evil,  toul,  and  ugly,  m  this 
populous  and  corrupt  city,  she  trod  as  if  invisible,  and 
not  only  so,  but  blind.  She  was  altogether  unconscious 
of  anything  wicked  that  went  along  the  same  pathway, 
but  without  jostling  or  impeding  her,  any  more  than  gross 
substance  hinders  the  wanderings  of  a  spirit.  Thus  it  is, 
that,  bad  as  the  world  is  said  to  have  grown,  mnocence 
continues  to  make  a  paradise  around  itself,  and  keep  it 
still  uiifallen. 

Hilda’s  present  expedition  led  her  into  what  was 
physically,  at  least -the  foulest  and  ugliest  part  of 
Koine.  In  that  vicinity  lies  the  Ghetto,  where  thousands 
of  Jews  are  crowded  within  a  narrow  compass  and  lead  , 
a  close,  unclean,  and  multitudinous  life,  resembling  that 
of  maggots  when  they  over-populate  a  decaying  cheese. 

Hilda  passed  on  the  borders  of  this  region,  but  had  no 
occasion  to  step  within  it.  Its  neighborhood,  however, 
naturally  partook  of  characteristics  like  its  own  Iheie 
was  a  confusion  of  black  and  hideous  houses,  piled  mas¬ 
sively  out  of  the  ruins  of  former  aps;  rude  and  desti¬ 
tute  of  plan,  as  a  pauper  would  build  his  hovel,  and  yet 
displaying  here  and  there  an  arched  gateway,  a  cornice,  a 
pillar,  or  a  broken  arcade,  that  might  have  adorned  a 
palace.  Many  of  the  houses,  indeed,  as  they  stood  niight 
.  once  have  been  palaces,  and  possessed  still  a  squalid  kind 
of  o-randeur.  Dirt  was  everywhere,  strewing  the  narrow 
streets,  and  incrusting  the  tall  shabbiness  of  the  edifices, 
from  the  foundations  to  the  roofs  ;  it  lay  upon  the  thresh¬ 
olds,  and  looked  out  of  the  windows,  and  assumed  the 
guise  of  human  life  in  the  children  that  seemed  to  be 
engendered  out  of  it.  Their  father  was  the  sun,  and 
their  mother  — a.  heap  of  Koman  mud. 


176 


UOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 

It  is  a  question  of  speculative  interest,  whether  the  an¬ 
cient  Romans  were  as  unclean  a  people  as  we  everywhere 
find  those  who  have  succeeded  them.  There  appears  to 
be  a  kind  of  malignant  spell  in  the  spots  that  have  been 
inhabited  by  these  masters  ol  the  world,  or  made  famous 
in  their  history ;  an  inherited  and  inalienable  curse,  im¬ 
pelling  their  successors  to  fling  dirt  and  defilement  upon 
whatever  temple,  column,  ruined  palace,  or  triumphal 
arch  may  be  nearest  at  hand ;  and  on  every  monument 
that  the  old  Romans  built.  It  is  most  probably  a  classic 
trait,  regularly  transmitted  downward,  and  perhaps  a  little 
modified  by  the  better  civilization  of  Christianity ;  so 
that  Caesar  may  have  trod  narrower  and  filthier  ways  in 
his  path  to  the  Capitol,  than  even  those  of  modern 
Rome. 

As  the  paternal  abode  of  Beatrice,  the  gloomy  old 
palace  of  the  Cencis  had  an  interest  for  Hilda,  although 
not  sufficiently  strong,  hitherto,  to  overcome  the  disheart¬ 
ening  effect  of  the  exterior,  and  draw  her  over  its  thresh¬ 
old.  The  adjacent  piazza,  of  poor  aspect,  contained 
only  an  old  woman  selling  roasted  chestnuts  and  baked 
squash-seeds  ;  she  looked  sharply  at  Hilda,  and  inquired 
whether  she  had  lost  her  way. 

“  No,”  said  Hilda ;  “  I  seek  the  Palazzo  Cenci.”' 

Yonder  it  is,  fair  signorina,”  replied  the  Roman  ma¬ 
tron.  “  If  you  wish  that  packet  delivered,  which  I  see 
in  your  hand,  my  grandson  Pietro  shall  run  with  it  for  a 
baiocco.  The  Cenci  palace  is  a  spot  of  ill-omen  for 
young  maidens.” 

Hilda  thanked  the  old  dame,  but  alleged  the  necessity 
of  doing  her  errand  in  person.  She  approached  the  front 
of  the  palace,  which,  with  all  its  immensity,  had  but  a 
mean  appearance,  and  seemed  an  abode  which  the  lovely 
shade  of  Beatrice  would  not  be  apt  to  haunt,  unless  her 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MIRIAM. 


177 


doonri  made  it  inevitable.  Some  soldiers  stood  about  the 
portal,  and  gazed  at  the  brown-haired,  fair-cheeked  Anglo- 
Saxon  girl,  with  approving  glances,  but  not  indecorously. 
Hilda  began  to  ascend  the  staircase,  three  lofty  flights  of 
wliich  were  to  be  surmounted,  before  reaching  the  door 
whither  she  was  bound. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE  EXTINCTION  OF  A  LAMP. 


ETWEEN  Hilda  and  the  sculptor  there  had 
been  a  kind  of  half-ex presssd  understanding, 
that  both  were  to  visit  the  galleries  of  the  Vat¬ 
ican  the  day  subsequent  to  their  meeting  at  the  studio. 
Kenyon,  accordingly,  failed  not  to  be  there,  and  wan¬ 
dered  through  the  vast  ranges  of  apartments,  but  saw 
nothing  of  his  expected  friend.  The  marble  faces,  which 
stand  innumerable  along  the  walls,  and  have  kept  them¬ 
selves  so  calm  through  the  vicissitudes  of  twenty  centu¬ 
ries,  had  no  sympathy  for  his  disappointment ;  and  he, 
on  the  other  hand,  strode  past  these  treasures  and  mar¬ 
vels  of  antique  art,  with  the  indifference  which  any 
preoccupation  of  the  feelings  is  apt  to  produce,  in  ref¬ 
erence  to  objects  of  sculpture.  Being  of  so  cold  and  pure 
a  substance,  and  mostly  deriving  their  vitality  more  from 
thought  than  passion,  they  require  to  be  seen  through  a 
perfectly  transparent  medium. 

And,  moreover,  Kenyon  had  counted  so  much  upon 
Hilda’s  delicate  perceptions  in  enabling  him  to  look  at 
two  or  three  of  the  statues,  about  which  they  had  talked 
together,  that  the  entire  purpose  of  his  visit  was  defeated 
by  her  absence.  It  is  a  delicious  sort  of  mutual  aid, 


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THE  EXTINCTION  OF  A  LAMP. 


179 


when  tlie  united  power  of  two  sympathetic,  yet  dissimilar 
intelligences  is  brought  to  bear  upon  a  poem  by  reading 
it  aloud,  or  upon  a  picture  or  statue  by  viewing  it  in 
each  other’s  company.  Even  if  not  a  word  of  criticism 
be  uttered,  the  insight  of  either  party  is  wonderfully  deep¬ 
ened,  and  the  comprehension  broadened ;  so  that  the  inner 
mystery  of  a  work  of  genius,  hidden  from  one,  will  often 
reveal  itself  to  two.  Missing  such  help,  Kenyon  saw 
nothing  at  the  Vatican  which  he  had  not  seen  a  thousand 
times  before,  and  more  perfectly  than  now. 

In  the  chill  of  his  disappointment,  he  suspected  that 
it  was  a  very  cold  art  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself. 
He  questioned,  at  that  moment,  whether  sculpture  really 
ever  softens  and  warms  the  material  which  it  handles  ; 
whether  carved  marble  is  anything  but  limestone,  after 
all ;  and  whether  the  Apollo  Belvedere  itself  possesses 
any  merit  above  its  physical  beauty,  or  is  beyond  criti¬ 
cism  even  in  that  generally  acknowledged  excellence. 
In  flitting  glances,  heretofore,  he  had  seemed  to  behold 
this  statue  as  something  ethereal  and  godlike,  but  not 
now. 

Nothing  pleased  him,  unless  it  were  the  group  of  the 
Laocobn,  which,  in  its  immortal  agony,  impressed  Kenyon 
as  a  type  of  the  long,  fierce  struggle  of  man,  involved  in 
the  knotted  entanglements  of  Error  and  Evil,  those  two 
snakes,  which,  if  no  divine  help  intervene,  will  be  sure 
to  strangle  him  and  his  children  in  the  end.  What  he 
most  admired  was  the  strange  calmness  diffused  through 
this  bitter  strife ;  so  that  it  resembled  the  rage  of  the  sea, 
made  calm  by  its  immensity,  or  the  tumult  of  Niagara 
which  ceases  to  be  tumult  because  it  lasts  forever.  Tlius, 
in  the  Laocodn,  the  horror  of  a  moment  grew  to  be  the 
fate  of  interminable  ages.  Kenyon  looked  upon  the 
group  as  the  one  triumph  of  sculpture,  creating  the  re- 


180 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


pose,  wliicli  is  essential  to  it,  in  the  very  acme  of  turbu¬ 
lent  effort ;  but,  in  truth,  it  was  his  mood  of  unwonted 
despondency  that  made  him  so  sensitive  to  the  terrible 
magnificence,  as  well  as  to  the  sad  moral  of  this  work. 
Hilda  herself  could  not  have  helped  him  to  see  it  with 
nearly  such  intelligence. 

A  good  deal  more  depressed  than  the  nature  of  the 
disappointment  warranted,  Kenyon  went  to  his  studio, 
and  took  in  hand  a  great  lump  of  clay.  He  soon  found, 
however,  that  his  plastic  cunning  had  departed  from  him 
for  the  time.  So  he  wandered  forth  again  into  the  un¬ 
easy  streets  of  Rome,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  Corso, 
where,  at  that  period  of  the  day,  a  throng  of  passers-by 
and  loiterers  choked  up  the  narrow  sidewalk.  A  penitent 
was  thus  brought  in  contact  with  the  sculptor. 

It  was  a  figure  in  a  white  robe,  with  a  kind  of  feature¬ 
less  mask  over  the  face,  through  the  apertures  of  which 
the  eyes  threw  an  unintelligible  light.  Such  odd,  ques¬ 
tionable  shapes  are  often  seen  gliding  through  the  streets 
of  Italian  cities,  and  are  understood  to  be  usually  persons 
of  rank,  who  quit  their  palaces,  their  gayeties,  their  pomp, 
and  pride,  and  assume  the  penitential  garb  for  a  season, 
with  a  view  of  thus  expiating  some  crime,  or  atoning  for 
the  aggregate  of  petty  sins  that  make  up  a  worldly  life. 
It  is  their  custom  to  ask  alms,  and  perhaps  to  measure 
the  duration  of  their  penance  by  the  time  requisite  to  ac¬ 
cumulate  a  sum  of  money  Out  of  the  little  droppings  of 
individual  charity.  The  avails  are  devoted  to  some  be¬ 
neficent  or  religious  purpose ;  so  that  the  benefit  accruing 
to  their  own  souls  is,  in  a  manner,  linked  with  a  good 
done,  or  intended,  to  their  fellow-men.  These  figures 
have  a  ghastly  and  startling  effect,  not  so  much  from 
any  very  impressive  peculiarity  in  the  garb,  as  from  the 
mystery  which  they  bear  about  with  them,  and  the  sense 


•  ,»  -fW' 


THE  EXTINCTION  OP  A  LAMP.  181 

that  there  is  an  aeknowledged  sinfulness  as  the  nucleus 
of  it. 

In  the  present  instance,  however,  the  penitent  asked 
no  alms  of  Kenyon ;  although,  for  the  space  of  a  minute 
or  two,  they  stood  face  to  face,  the  hollow  eyes  of  the 
mask  encountering  the  sculptor’s  gaze.  But,  just  as  the 
crowd  was  about  to  separate  them,  the  former  spoke,  in 
a  voice  not  unfamiliar  to  Kenyon,  though  rendered  remote 
and  strange  by  the  guilty  veil  through  which  it  penetrated. 

“  Is  all  well  with  you,  signor  ?  ”  inquired  the  penitent, 
out  of  the  cloud  in  which  he  walked. 

“  All  is  well,”  answered  Kenyon.  ‘‘  And  with  you  ?  ” 

But  the  masked  penitent  returned  no  answer,  being 
borne  away  by  the  pressure  of  the  throng. 

The  sculptor  stood  watching  the  figure,  and  was  almost 
of  a  mind  to  hurry  after  him  and  follow  up  the  conversa¬ 
tion  that  had  been  begun ;  but  it  occurred  to  him  that 
there  is  a  sanctity  (or,  as  we  might  rather  term  it,  an 
inviolable  etiquette)  which  prohibits  the  recognition  of 
persons  who  choose  to  walk  under  the  veil  of  penitence. 

“  How  strange  !  ”  thought  Kenyon  to  himself.  It 
was  surely  Donatello  !  What  can  bring  him  to  Home, 
where  his  recollections  must  be  so  painful,  and  his  presence 
npt  without  peril  ?  And  Miriam  !  Can  she  have  accom¬ 
panied  him  ? 

He  walked  on,  thinking  of  the  vast  change  in  Dona¬ 
tello,  since  those  days  of  gayety  and  innocence,  when  the 
young  Italian  was  new  in  Rome,  and  was  just  beginning 
to  be  sensible  of  a  more  poignant  felicity  than  he  had 
yet  experienced,  in  the  sunny  warmth  of  Miriam’s  smile. 
The  growth  of  a  soul,  which  the  sculptor  half  imagined 
that  he  had  witnessed  in  his  friend,  seemed  hardly  worth 
the  heavy  price  that  it  had  cost,  in  the  sacrifice  of  those 
simple  enjoyments  that  were  gone  forever.  A  creature 


182 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


of  antique  liealtlifulness  liad  vanislied  from  the  earth  ; 
and,  in  his  stead,  there  was  only  one  other  morbid  and 
remorseful  man,  among  millions  that  were  cast  in  the 
same  indistinguishable  mould. 

The  accident  of  thus  meeting  Donatello  —  the  glad 
Taun  of  his  imagination  and  memory,  now  transformed 
into  a  gloomy  penitent  —  contributed  to  deepen  the  cloud 
that  had  fallen  over  Kenyon’s  spirits.  It  caused  him  to 
fancy,  as  we  generally  do,  in  the  petty  troubles  which 
extend  not  a  hand’s-breadth  beyond  our  own  sphere,  that 
the  whole  world  was  saddening  around  him.  It  took  the 
sinister  aspect  of  an  omen,  although  he  could  not  dis¬ 
tinctly  see  what  trouble  it  might  forebode. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  a  peculiar  sort  of  pique,  with 
which  lovers  are  much  conversant,  a  preposterous  kind  of 
resentment  which  endeavors  to  wreak  itself  on  the  be¬ 
loved  object,  and  on  one’s  own  heart,  in  requital  of  mis¬ 
haps  for  which  neither  are  in  fault,  Kenyon  might  at  once 
have  betaken  himself  to  Hilda’s  studio,  and  asked  why 
the  appointment  was  not  kept.  But  the  interview  of  to¬ 
day  was  to  have  been  so  rich  in  present  joy,  and  its  results 
so  important  to  his  future  life,  that  the  bleak  failure  was 
too  much  for  his  equanimity.  He  was  angry  with  poor 
Hilda,  and  censured  her  without  a  hearing ;  angry  with 
himself,  too,  and  therefore  inflicted  on  this  latter  criminal 
the  severest  penalty  in  his  power ;  angry  with  the  day 
that  was  passing  over  him,  and  would  not  permit  its  lat¬ 
ter  hours  to  redeem  the  disappointment  of  the  morning. 

To  confess  the  truth,  it  had  been  the  sculptor’s  purpose  , 
to  stake  all  his  hopes  on  that  interview  in  the  galleries 
of  the  Vatican.  Straying  with  Hilda  through  those  long 
vistas  of  ideal  beauty,  he  meant,  at  last,  to  utter  himself 
upon  lhat  theme  which  lovers  are  fain  to  discuss  in  village- 
lanes,  in  wood-paths,  on  seaside  sands,  in  crowded  streets ; 


i.-  i-i 


^  /-Js 


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1 


V.l- 

J-''*  ><: 


I: 


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vi-  V  -  v:. 


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I  I 


Jaiyiii 


THE  EXTINCTION  OF  A  LAMP. 


183 


it  little  matters  where,  indeed,  since  roses  are  snre  to  blush 
along  tlie  way,  and  daisies  and  violets  to  spring  beneath 
the  feet,  if  the  spoken  word  be  graciously  received.  He 
was  resolved  to  make  proof  whether  the  kindness  that 
Hilda  evinced  for  him  was  the  precious  token  of  an  indi¬ 
vidual  preference,  or  merely  the  sweet  fragrance  of  her 
disposition,  wliich  other  friends  might  share  as  largely 
as  himself.  He  would  try  if  it  were  possible  to  take 
this  shy,  yet  frank,  and  innocently  fearless  creature 
captive,  and  imprison  her  in  his  heart,  and  make  her 
sensible  of  a  wider  freedom  there,  than  in  all  the  world 
besides. 

It  was  hard,  we  must  allow,  to  see  the  shadow  of  a 
wintry  sunset  falling  upon  a  day  that  was  to  have  been  so 
briglit,  and  to  find  himself  just  where  yesterday  had  left 
him,  only  with  a  sense  of  being  drearily  balked,  and  de¬ 
feated  without  an  opportunity  for  struggle.  So  much  had 
been  anticipated  from  these  now  vanished  hours,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  no  other  day  could  bring  back  the  same 
golden  hopes. 

In  a  case  like  this,  it  is  doubtful  whether  Kenyon  could 
have  done  a  much  better  thing  than  he  actually  did,  by 
going  to  dine  at  the  Cafe  N  novo,  and  drinking  a  flask  of 
Montefiascone  ;  longing,  the  while,  for  a  beaker  or  two  of 
Donatello’s  Sunshine.  It  would  have  been  just  the  wine 
to  cure  a  lover’s  melancholy,  by  illuminating  his  heart 
with  tender  light  and  warmth,  and  suggestions  of  unde¬ 
fined  hopes,  too  ethereal  for  his  morbid  humor  to  examine 
and  reject  them. 

No  decided  improvement  resnlting  from  the  draught  of 
Montefiascone,  he  went  to  the  Teatro  Argentine,  and  sat 
gloomily  to  see  an  Italian  comedy,  which  ought  to  have 
cheered  him  somewhat,  being  full  of  glancing  merriment, 
and  effective  over  everybody’s  risibilities  except  his  own. 


184 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENE. 


The  sculptor  came  out,  however,  before  the  close  of  the 
performance,  as  disconsolate  as  lie  went  in. 

As  he  made  his  way  through  the  complication  of  nar¬ 
row  streets,  which  perplex  that  portion  of  the  city,  a  car¬ 
riage  passed  him.  It  was  driven  rapidly,  but  not  too  fast 
for  the  light  of  a  gas-lamp  to  flare  upon  a  face  within ; 
especially  as  it  was  bent  forward,  appearing  to  recognize 
him,  while  a  beckoning  hand  was  protruded  from  the 
window.  On  his  part,  Kenyon  at  once  knew  the  face, 
and  hastened  to  the  carriage,  which  had  now  stopped. 

“  Miriam  !  you  in  Rome  ?  ”  he  exclaimed.  “  And  your 
friends  know  nothing  of  it  ?  ” 

“  Is  all  well  with  you  ?  ”  she  asked. 

This  inquiry,  in  tlie  identical  words  which  Donatello 
had  so  recently  addressed  to  him,  from  beneath  the  peni¬ 
tent’s  mask,  startled  the  sculptor.  Either  the  previous 
disquietude  of  his  mind,  or  some  tone  in  Miriam’s  voice, 
or  the  unaccountableness  of  beholding  her  there  at  all, 
made  it  seem  ominous. 

‘‘All  is  well,  I  believe,”  answered  he,  doubtfully.  “I 
am  aware  of  no  misfortune.  Have  you  any  to  announce  ?  ” 
He  looked  still  more  earnestly  at  Miriam,  and  felt  a 
dreamy  uncertainty  whether  it  was  really  herself  to  whom 
he  spoke.  True ;  there  were  those  beautiful  features,  the 
contour  of  which  he  had  studied  too  often,  and  with  a 
sculptor’s  accuracy  of  perception,  to  be  in  any  doubt  that 
it  was  Miriam’s  identical  face.  But  he  was  conscious  of 
a  change,  the  nature  of  which  he  could  not  satisfactorily 
define ;  it  might  be  merely  her  dress,  which,  imperfect  as 
the  light  was,  he  saw  to  be  richer  than  the  simple  garb 
that  she  had  usually  worn.  The  effect,  he  fancied,  was 
partly  owing  to  a  gem  which  she  had  on  her  bosom ;  not 
a  diamond,  but  something  that  glimmered  with  a  clear, 
red  lustre,  like  the  stars  in  a  southern  sky.  Somehow  or 


THE  EXTINCTION  OF  A  LAMP. 


185 


otlier,  tliis  colored  liglit  seemed  an  emanation  of  herself, 
as  if  all  that  was  passionate  and  glowing,  in  her  native 
disposition,  had  crystallized  upon  her  breast,  and  were 
just  now  scintillating  more  brilliantly  than  ever,  in  sym¬ 
pathy  with  some  emotion  of  her  heart. 

Of  course  there  could  be  no  real  doubt  that  it  was 
Miriam,  his  artist  friend,  with  whom  and  Hilda  he  had 
spent  so  many  pleasant  and  familiar  hours,  and  whom  he 
had  last  seen  at  Perugia,  bending  with  Donatello  beneath 
the  bronze  pope’s  benediction.  It  must  be  that  self-same 
Miriam;  but  the  sensitive  sculptor  felt  a  difference  of 
manner,  which  impressed  him  more  than  he  conceived  it 
possible  to  be  affected  by  so  external  a  thing.  He  remem¬ 
bered  the  gossip  so  prevalent  in  Rome  on  Miriam’s  first 
appearance;  how  that  she  was  no  real  artist,  but  the 
daughter  of  an  illustrious  or  golden  lineage,  who  was 
merely  playing  at  necessity ;  mingling  with  human  strug¬ 
gle  for  her  pastime ;  stepping  out  of  her  native  sphere  only 
for  an  interlude,  just  as  a  princess  might  alight  from  her 
gilded  equipage  to  go  on  foot  through  a  rustic  lane.  And 
now,  after  a  mask  in  which  love  and  death  had  performed 
their  several  parts,  she  had  resumed  her  proper  character. 

“  Have  yon  anything  to  tell  me  ?  ”  cried  he,  impatiently ; 
for  nothing  causes  a  more  disagreeable  vibration  of  the 
nerves  than  this  perception  of  ambiguousness  in  familiar 
persons  or  affairs.  “  Speak  ;  for  my  spirits  and  patience 
have  been  much  tried  to-day.” 

Miriam  put  her  finger  on  her  lips,  and  seemed  desirous 
that  Kenyon  should  know  of  the  presence  of  a  third 
person.  He  now  saw,  indeed,  that  there  was  some  one 
beside  her  in  the  carriage,  hitherto  concealed  by  her 
attitude ;  a  man,  it  appeared,  with  a  sallow  Italian  face, 
which  the  sculptor  distinguished  but  imperfectly,  and  did 
not  recognize. 


186 


ROMANCE  or  MONTE  BENI. 


‘‘  I  can  tell  you  notliing,”  she  replied  ;  and  leaning 
towards  him,  she  whispered,  —  appearing  then  more  like 
the  Miriam  Avhom  he  knew,  than  in  what  had  before 
passed,  —  “  Only,  when  the  lamp  goes  out  do  not  despair.” 

The  carriage  drove  on,  leaving  Kenyon  to  muse  over 
this  unsatisfactory  interview,  which  seemed  to  have  served 
no  better  purpose  than  to  fill  his  mind  with  more  omi¬ 
nous  forebodings  than  before.  Why  were  Donatello  and 
Miriam  in  Rome,  where  both,  in  all  likelihood,  might 
have  much  to  dread  ?  And  why  had  one  and  the  other 
addressed  him  with  a  question  that  seemed  prompted 
by  a  knowledge  of  some  calamity,  either  already  fallen 
on  his  unconscious  head,  or  impending  closely  over 
him  ? 

“I  am  sluggish,”  muttered  Kenyon,  to  himself;  “a 
weak,  nerveless  fool,  devoid  of  energy  and  promptitude ; 
or  neither  Donatello  nor  Miriam  could  have  escaped  me 
thus  !  They  are  aware  of  some  misfortune  that  concerns 
me  deeply.  How  soon  am  I  to  know  it  too  ?  ” 

There  seemed  but  a  single  calamity  possible  to  happen 
within  so  narrow  a  sphere  as  that  with  which  the  sculptor 
was  connected ;  and  even  to  that  one  mode  of  evil  he 
could  assign  no  definite  shape,  but  only  felt  that  it  must 
have  some  reference  to  Hilda. 

Flinging  aside  the  morbid  hesitation,  and  the  dallyings 
with  his  own  wishes,  which  he  had  permitted  to  influence 
his  mind  throughout  the  day,  he  now  hastened  to  the  Via 
Portoghese.  Soon  the  old  palace  stood  before  him,  with 
its  massive  tower  rising  into  the  clouded  night ;  obscured 
from  view  at  its  midmost  elevation,  but  revealed  again, 
liigher  upward,  by  the  Virgin’s  lamj)  that  twinkled  on  the 
summit.  Feeble  as  it  was,  in  the  broad,  surrounding 
gloom,  that  little  ray  made  no  inconsiderable  illumination 
among  Kenyon’s  sombre  thoughts ;  for,  remembering  Mir- 


THE  EXTINCTION  OF  A  LAMP.  187 

iam’s  last  words,  a  fantasy  liad  seized  him  that  he  should 
find  the  sacred  lamp  extinguished. 

And,  even  while  he  stood  gazing,  as  a  mariner  at  the 
star  in  which  he  puts  his  trust,  the  light  quivered,  sank, 
gleamed  up  again,  and  finally  went  out,  leaving  the  bat¬ 
tlements  of  Hilda’s  tower  in  utter  darkness.  Eor  the 
first  time  in  centuries,  the  consecrated  and  legendary 
jlaine,  before  the  loftiest  shrine  in  Home,  had  ceased  to 
burn. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  DESERTED  SHRINE. 

ENYON  knew  the  sanctity  winch  Hilda  (faithful 
Protestant,  and  daughter  of  the  Puritans,  as 
the  girl  was)  imputed  to  this  shrine.  He  was 
aware  of  the  profound  feeling  of  responsibility,  as  well 
earthly  as  religious,  with  which  her  conscience  had  been 
impressed,  when  she  became  the  occupant  of  her  aerial 
chamber,  and  nndertook  the  task  of  keeping  the  conse¬ 
crated  lamp  alight.  There  was  an  accuracy  and  a  cer¬ 
tainty  abont  Hilda’s  movements,  as  regarded  all  matters 
that  lay  deep  enough  to  have  their  roots  in  right  or 
wrong,  which  made  it  as  possible  and  safe  to  rely  upon 
the  timely  and  careful  trimming  of  this  lamp  (if' she  were 
in  life,  and  able  to  creep  up  the  steps),  as  upon  the  rising 
of  to-morrow’s  sun,  with  lustre  undimiuished  from  to- 
day. 

The  sculptor  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes,  therefore, 
when  he  saw  the  flame  flicker  and  expire.  His  sight  had 
surely  deceived  him.  And  now,  since  the  light  did  not 
reappear,  there  must  be  some  smoke-wreath  or  im pene¬ 
trable  mist  brooding  about  the  tower’s  gray  old  head, 
and  obscuring  it  from  the  lower  world.  But  no!  Por 


THE  DESERTED  SHRINE. 


189 


riglit  over  tlie  dim  battlements,  as  the  wind  chased  away 
a  mags  of  clouds,  he  beheld  a  star,  and,  moreover,  by  an 
earnest  concentration  of  his  sight,  was  soon  able  to  dis¬ 
cern  even  the  darkened  shrine  itself.  There  was  no  ob¬ 
scurity  around  the  tower ;  no  infirmity  of  his  own  vision. 
The  flame  had  exhausted  its  supply  of  oil,  and  become 
extinct.  But  where  was  Hilda  ? 

A  man  in  a  cloak  happened  'to  be  passing ;  and  Ken¬ 
yon  —  anxious  to  distrust  the  testimony  of  his  senses, 
if  he  could  get  more  acceptable  evidence  on  the  other 
side  —  appealed  to  him. 

“Do  me  the  favor,  signor,”  said  he,  “to  look  at  the 
top  of  yonder  tower,  and  tell  me  whether  you  see  the 
lamp  burning  at  the  Virgin’s  shrine.” 

“  The  lamp,  signor  ?  ”  answered  the  man,  without  at 
first  troubling  himself  to  look  up.  “The  lamp  that  has 
burned  these  four  hundred  years  !  how  is  it  possible,  sig¬ 
nor,  that  it  should  not  be  burning  now  ?  ” 

“But  look  !  ”  said  the  sculptor,  impatiently. 

With  good-natured  indulgence  for  what  he  seemed  to 
consider  as  the  whim  of  an  eccentric  Borestiero,  the  Ital¬ 
ian  carelessly  threw  his  eyes  upwards ;  but,  as  soon  as 
he  perceived  that  there  was  really  no  light,  he  lifted  his 
hands  with  a  vivid  expression  of  wonder  and  alarm. 

“  The  lamp  is  extinguished  !  ”  cried  he.  “  The  lamp 
that  has  been  burning  these  four  hundred  years !  This 
surely  must  portend  some  great  misfortune ;  and,  by  my 
advice,  signor,  you  will  hasten  lienee,  lest  the  tower 
tumble  on  our  heads.  A  priest  once  told  me,  that,  if 
the  Virgin  withdrew  her  blessing,  and  the  light  went 
out,  the  old  Palazzo  del  Torre  would  sink  into  the  earth, 
with  all  that  dwell  in  it.  There  will  be  a  terrible  crash 
before  morning !  ” 

The  stranger  made  the  best  of  his  way  from  the  doomed 


190 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


premises;  while  Kenyon — who  would Mnllingly  have  seen 
the  tower  eruinble  down  before  his  eyes,  on  condition  of 
Hilda’s  safety  —  determined,  late  as  it  was,  to  attempt 
ascertaining  if  she  were  in  her  dove-cote. 

Passing  through  the  arched  entrance, — whieh,  as  is 
often  the  case  with  Roman  entrances,  was  as  accessible 
at  midnight  as  at  noon,  —  he  groped  his  way  to  the 
broad  staircase,  and,  lighting  his  wax  taper,  went  glim¬ 
mering  up  the  multitude  of  steps  that  led  to  Hilda’s 
door.  The,  hour  being  so  unseasonable,  he  intended 
merely  to  knock,  and,  as  soon  as  her  voice  from  within 
should  reassure  him,  to  retire,  keeping  his  explanations 
and  apologies  for  a  fitter  time.  Accordingly,  reaching 
the  lofty  height  where  the  maiden,  as  he  trusted,  lay 
asleep,  with  angels  watehing  over  her,  though  the  Virgin 
seemed  to  have  suspended  her  care,  he  tapped  lightly 
at  the  door-panels,  —  then  knocked  more  forcibly,  —  then 
thundered  an  impatient  summons.  No  answer  came ; 
Hilda  evidently  was  not  there. 

After  assuring  himself  that  this  must  be  the  fact,  Ken¬ 
yon  descended  the  stairs,  but  made  a  pause  at  every  suc¬ 
cessive  stage,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  its  apartment, 
regardless  whose  slumbers  he  might  disturb,  in  his  anx¬ 
iety  to  learn  where  the  girl  had  last  been  seen.  But,  at 
each  closed  entrance,  there  came  those  hollow  echoes, 
which  a  chamber,  or  any  dwelling,  great  or  small,  never 
sends  out,  in  response  to  human  knuckles  or  iron  ham¬ 
mer,  as  long  as  there  is  life  within  to  keep  its  heart  from 
getting  dreary. 

Once,  indeed,  on  the  lower  landing-place,  the  sculp¬ 
tor  fancied  that  there  was  a  momentary  stir,  inside  the 
door,  as  if  somebody  were  listening  at  the  threshold.  He 
hoped,  at  least,  that  the  small,  iron-barred  aperture  would 
be  unclosed,  through  which  Roman  housekeepers  are 


THE  DESERTED  SIIRTNE. 


191 


wont  to  take  careful  cognizance  of  applicants  for  admis¬ 
sion,  from  a  traditionary  dread,  perhaps,  of  letting  in  a 
robber  or  assassin.  But  it  remained  shut;  neither  was 
the  sound  repeated  ;  and  Kenyon  concluded  that  his  ex¬ 
cited  nerves  had  played  a  trick  upon  his  senses,  as  they 
are  apt  to  do  when  we  most  wish  for  the  clear  evidence 
of  the  latter. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  save  to  go  heavily  away, 
and  await  whatever  good  or  ill  to-morrow’s  daylight  might 
disclose. 

Betimes  in  the  morning,  therefore,  Kenyon  went  back 
to  the  Via  Portoghese,  before  the  slant  rays  of  the  sun 
had  descended  lialf-way  down  the  gray  front  of  Hilda’s 
tower.  As  he  drew  near  its  base,  he  saw  the  doves 
perched  in  full  session,  on  the  sunny  height  of  the  bat¬ 
tlements,  and  a  pair  of  them  —  who  were  probably  their 
mistress’s  especial  pets,  and  the  confidants  of  her  bosom- 
secrets,  if  Hilda  had  any  —  came  shooting  down,  and 
made  a  feint  of  alighting  on  his  shoulder.  But,  tliongh 
they  evidently  recognized  him,  their  shyness  would  not 
yet  allow  so  decided  a  demonstration.  Kenyon’s  eyes 
followed  them  as  tliey  flew  upward,  hoping  that  they 
might  have  come  as  joyful  messengers  of  the  girl’s  safety, 
and  that  he  should  discern  her  slender  form,  half  hidden 
by  the  parapet,  trimming  the  extinguished  lamp  at  the 
Virgin’s  shrine,  just  as  other  maidens  set  about  the  little 
duties  of  a  household.  Or,  perhaps,  he  might  see  her 
gentle  and  sweet  face  smiling  down  upon  him,  midway 
towards  heaven,  as  if  she  had  flown  hither  for  a  day  or 
two,  just  to  visit  her  kindred,  but  had  been  drawn  earth¬ 
ward  again  by  the  spell  of  unacknowledged  love. 

But  his  eyes  were  blessed  by  no  such  fair  vision  or 
reality  ;  nor,  in  truth,  were  the  eager  unquiet  flutterings 
of  the  doves  indicative  of  any  joyful  intelligence,  which 


192 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


they  longed  to  share  with  Hilda’s  friend,  but  of  anxious 
inquiries  that  they  knew  not  how  to  utter.  They  could 
not  tell,  any  more  than  he,  whither  their  lost  companion 
had  withdrawn  herself,  but  were  in  the  same  void  de¬ 
spondency  with  him,  feeling  their  sunny  and  airy  lives 
darkened  and  grown  imperfect,  now  that  her  sweet  society 
was  taken  out  of  it. 

In  the  brisk  morning  air,  Kenyon  found  it  much  easier 
to  pursue  his  researches  than  at  the  preceding  midnight, 
wlien,  if  any  slumberers  heard  the  clamor  that  he  made, 
they  had  responded  only  with  sullen  and  drowsy  maledic¬ 
tions  and  turned  to  sleep  again.  It  must  be  a  very  dear 
and  intimate  reality  for  which  people  will  be  content  to 
give  up  a  dream.  When  the  sun  was  fairly  up,  however, 
it  was  quite  another  thing.  The  heterogeneous  popula¬ 
tion,  inhabiting  the  lower  floor  of  the  old  tower,  and  the 
other  extensive  regions  of  the  palace,  were  now  willing 
to  tell  all  they  knew,  and  imagine  a  great  deal  more. 
The  amiability  of  these  Italians,  assisted  by  their  sharp 
and  nimble  wits,  caused  them  to  overflow  with  plausible 
suggestions,  and  to  be  very  bounteous  in  their  avowals 
of  interest  for  the  lost  Hilda.  In  a  less  demonstrative 
people,  such  expressions  would  have  implied  an  eager¬ 
ness  to  search  land  and  sea,  and  never  rest  till  she  were 
found.  In  the  mouths  that  uttered  them,  they  meant 
good  wishes,  and  were,  so  far,  better  than  indifference. 
There  was  little  doubt  that  many  of  them  felt  a  genuine 
kindness  for  the  shy,  brown-haired,  delicate  young  foreign 
maiden,  who  had  flown  from  some  distant  land  to  alight 
upon  their  tower,  where  she  consorted  only  with  the 
doves.  But  their  energy  expended  itself  in  exclamation, 
and  they  were  content  to  leave  all  more  active  measures 
to  Kenyon,  and  to  the  Virgin,  whose  affair  it  was,  to  see 
that  the  faithful  votary  of  her  lamp  received  no  harm. 


•THE  DESERTED  SHRINE. 


193 


In  a  great  Parisian  domicile,  multifarious  as  its  inhab¬ 
itants  might  be,  the  concierge  under  the  archway  would 
be  cognizant  of  all  their  incomings  and  issuings  forth. 
But,  except  in  rare  cases,  the  general  entrance  and  main 
staircase  of  a  Roman  house  are  left  as  free  as  the  street, 
of  which  they  form  a  sort  of  by-lane.  The  sculptor, 
therefore,  could  hope  to  find  information  about  Hilda’s 
movements  only  from  casual  observers. 

On  probing  the  knowledge  of  these  people  to  the  bot¬ 
tom,  there  was  various  testimony  as  to  the  period  when 
the  girl  had  last  been  seen.  Some  said  that  it  was  four 
days  since  there  had  been  a  traee  of  her ;  but  an  Eng¬ 
lish  lady,  in  the  seeond  piano  of  the  palace,  was  rather 
of  opinion  that  she  had  met  her,  the  morning  before,  with 
a  drawing-book  in  her  hand.  Having  no  acquaintanee 
with  the  young  person,  she  had  taken  little  notice,  and 
might  have  been  mistaken.  A  count,  on  the  piano  next 
above,  M-as  very  certain  that  he  had  lifted  his  hat  to 
Hilda,  under  the  archway,  two  afternoons  ago.  An  old 
woman,  who  had  formerly  tended  the  shrine,  threw  some 
light  upon  the  matter,  by  testifying  that  the  lamp  required 
to  be  replenished  onee,  at  least,  in  three  days,  though  its 
reservoir  of  oil  was  exceedingly  capacious. 

On  the  whole,  though  there  was  other  evidence  enough 
to  create  some  perplexity,  Kenyon  eould  not  satisfy  him¬ 
self  that  she  had  been  visible  since  the  afternoon  of  the 
third  preeeding  day,  when  a  fruit-seller  remembered  her 
coming  out  of  the  arched  passage,  with  a  sealed  packet 
in  her  hand.  As  nearly  as  he  could  ascertain,  this  was 
within  an  hour  after  Hilda  had  taken  leave  of  the  sculp¬ 
tor,  at  his  own  studio,  with  the  understanding  that  they 
were  to  meet  at  the  Vatican  the  next  day.  Two  nights, 
therefore,  had  intervened,  during  which  the  lost  maiden 
was  unaccounted  for. 

9 


VOL.  II. 


M 


194 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


The  door  of  Hilda’s  apartments  was  still  locked,  as  on 
the  preceding  night ;  but  Kenyon  sought  out  the  wife  of 
the  person  who  sublet  them,  and  prevailed  on  her  to 
give  him  admittance  by  means  of  the  duplicate  key,  which 
the  good  woman  had  in  her  possession.  On  entering,  the 
maidenly  neatness  and  simple  grace,  recognizable  in  all 
the  arrangements,  made  him  visibly  sensible  that  this 
was  the  daily  haunt  of  a  pure  soul,  in  whom  religion  aild 
the  love  of  beauty  were  at  one. 

Thence,  the  sturdy  Roman  matron  led  the  sculptor 
across  a  narrow  passage,  and  threw  open  the  door  of  a 
small  chamber,  on  the  threshold  of  which  he  reverently 
paused.  Within,  there  was  a  bed,  covered  with  white 
drapery,  enclosed  with  snowy  curtains,  like  a  tent,  and  of 
barely  Avidth  enough  for  a  slender  figure  to  repose  upon  it. 
The  sight  of  this  cool,  airy,  and  secluded  bower  caused 
the  lover’s  heart  to  stir  as  if  enough  of  Hilda’s  gentle 
dreams  were  lingering  there  to  make  him  happy  for  a 
single  instant.  But  then  came  the  closer  consciousness 
of  her  loss,  bringing  along  with  it  a  sharp  sting  of  an¬ 
guish. 

“  Behold,  signor,”  said  the  matron ;  ''  here  is  the  little 
staircase  by  which  the  signorina  used  to  ascend  and  trim 
the  Blessed  Virgin’s  lamp.  She  was  worthy  to  be  a 
Catholic,  such  pains  the  good  child  bestowed  to  keep  it 
burning;  and  doubtless  the  blessed  Mary  will  intercede 
for  her,  in  consideration  of  her  pious  offices,  heretic  though 
she  was.  What  will  become  of  the  old  palazzo,  now  that 
the  lamp  is  extinguished,  the  saints  above  us  only  know ! 
Will  you  mount,  signor,  to  the  battlements,  and  see  if  she 
have  left  any  trace  of  herself  there  ?  ” 

The  sculptor  stepped  across  the  chamber  and  ascended 
the  little  staircase,  Avhich  gave  him  access  to  the  breezy 
summit  of  the  tower.  It  affected  him  inexpressibly  to  see 


THE  DESERTED  SHRINE. 


195 


a  bouquet  of  beautiful  flowers  beneath  the  shrine,  and  to 
recognize  in  them  an  ottering  of  his  own  to  Hilda,  who 
had  put  them  in  a  vase  of  water  and  dedicated  them  to 
the  Virgin,  in  a  spirit  partly  fanciful,  perhaps,  but  still 
partaking  of  the  religious  sentiment  which  so  profoundly 
influenced  her  character.  One  rosebud,  indeed,  she  had 
selected  for  herself  from  the  rich  mass  of  flowers  ;  for 
Kenyon  well  remembered  recognizing  it  in  her  bosom 
wlien  he  last  saw  her  at  his  studio. 

“  That  little  part  of  my  great  love  she  took,”  said  lie 
to  himself.  “  The  remainder  she  would  have  devoted  to 
Heaven ;  but  has  left  it  withering  in  the  sun  and  wind. 
Ah  !  Hilda,  Hilda,  had  you  given  me  a  right  to  watch 
over  you,  this  evil  had  not  come  !  ” 

“Be  not  downcast,  signorino  mio,”  said  the  Boman 
matron,  in  response  to  the  deep  sigh  which  struggled  out 
of  Kenyon’s  breast.  “  The  dear  little  maiden,  as  we  see, 
has  decked  yonder  blessed  shrine  as  devoutly  as  I  myself, 
or  any  other  good  Catholic  woman,  could  have  done.  It 
is  a  religious  act,  and  has  more  than  the  efficacy  of  a 
prayer.  The  signorina  will  as  surely  come  back  as  the 
sun  will  fall  through  the  window  to-morrow  no  less  tliaii 
to-day.  Her  own  doves  have  often  been  missing  for  a  day 
or  two,  but  they  were, sure  to  come  fluttering  about  her 
head  again,  when  she  least  expected  them.  So  will  it  be 
with  this  dovelike  child.” 

“  It  might  be  so,”  thought  Kenyon,  withyearning  anx¬ 
iety,  “  if  a  pure  maiden  were  as  safe  as  a  dove,  in  this 
evil  world  of  ours.” 

As  they  returned  through  the  studio,  with  the  furniture 
and  arrangements  of  which  the  sculptor  was  familiar,  he 
missed  a  small  ebony  writing-desk  that  he  remembered 
as  having  always  been  placed  on  a  table  there.  He  knew 
that  it  was  Hilda’s  custom  to  deposit  her  letters  in  this 


]96 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


desk,  as  well  as  other  little  objects  of  which  she  wished 
to  be  specially  careful. 

“  What  has  become  of  it  ?  ”  he  suddenly  inquired,  lay¬ 
ing  his  hand  on  the  table. 

“  Become  of  what,  pray  ?  ”  exclaimed  the  woman,  a 
little  disturbed.  “  Does  the  signor  suspect  a  robbery, 
then  ?  ” 

“  The  signorina’s  writing-desk  is  gone,”  replied  Ken¬ 
yon  ;  “  it  always  stood  on  this  table,  and  I  myself  saw  it 
there  only  a  few  days  ago.” 

“  Ah,  well !  ”  said  the  woman,  recovering  her  com¬ 
posure,  which  she  seemed  partly  to  have  lost.  “  The 
signorina  has  doubtless  taken  it  away  with  her.  The 
fact  is  of  good  omen ;  for  it  proves  that  she  did  not  go 
unexpectedly,  and  is  likely  to  return  when  it  may  best 
suit  her  convenience.” 

“  This  is  very  singular,”  observed  Kenyon.  “  Have 
the  rooms  been  entered  by  yourself,  or  any  other  person, 
since  the  signorina’s  disappearance  ?  ” 

“  Not  by  me,  signor,  so  help  me  Heaven  and  the  saints !  ” 
said  the  matron.  “And  I  question  whether  there  are 
more  than  two  keys  in  Borne  that  will  suit  this  strange 
old  lock.  Here  is  one ;  and  as  for  the  other,  the  signo¬ 
rina  carries  it  in  her  pocket.” 

The  sculptor  had  no  reason  to  doubt  the  word  of  this 
respectable  dame.  She  appeared  to  be  well-meaning  and 
kind-hearted,  as  Boman  matrons  generally  are ;  except 
when  a  fit  of  passion  incites  them  to  shower  horrible 
curses  on  an  obnoxious  individual,  or  perhaps  to  stab 
him  with  the  steel  stiletto  that  serves  them  for  a  hair-pin. 
But  Italian  asseverations  of  any  questionable  fact,  however 
true  they  may  chance  to  be,  have  no  witness  of  their 
truth  in  the  faces  of  those  who  utter  them.  Their  words 
are  spoken  with  strange  earnestness,  and  yet  do  not  voucli 


THE  DESERTED  SHRINE. 


197 


for  themselves  as  coming  from  any  depth,  like  roots  drawn 
out  of  tlie  substance  of  the  soul,  with  some  of  the  soil 
clinging  to  them.  There  is  always  a  something  inscru¬ 
table,  instead  of  frankness,  in  their  eyes.  In  short,  they 
lie  so  much  like  truth,  and  speak  truth  so  much  as  if  they 
were  telling  a  lie,  that  their  auditor  suspects  himself  in 
the  wrong,  whether  he  believes  or  disbelieves  them  ;  it 
being  the  one  thing  certain,  that  falsehood  is  seldom  an 
intolerable  burden  to  the  tenderest  of  Italian  consciences. 

“  It  is  very  strange  what  can  have  become  of  the  desk  !  ” 
repeated  Kenyon,  looking  the  woman  in  the  face. 

“  Very  strange,  indeed,  signor,”  she  replied,  meekly, 
without  turning  away  her  eyes  in  the  least,  but  checking 
his  insight  of  them  at  about  half  an  inch  below  the  sur¬ 
face.  “  I  think  the  signorina  must  have  taken  it  with 
her.” 

It  seemed  idle  to  linger  here  any.  longer.  Kenyon 
therefore  departed,  after  making  an  arrangement  with  the 
wmman,  by  the  terms  of  which  she  was  to  allow  the  apart¬ 
ments  to  remain  in  their  present  state,  on  his  assuming 
the  responsibility  for  the  rent. 

He  spent  the  day  in  making  such  further  search  and 
investigation  as  he  found  practicable  ;  and,  though  at  first 
trammelled  by  an  unwillingness  to  draw  public  attention 
to  Hilda’s  affairs,  the  urgency  of  the  circumstances  soon 
compelled  him  to  be  thoroughly  in  earnest.  In  the  course 
of  a  week,  he  tried  all  conceivable  modes  of  fathoming  the 
mystery,  not  merely  by  his  personal  efforts  and  those  of 
his  brother-artists  and  friends,  but  through  the  police, 
who  readily  undertook  the  task,  and  expressed  strong 
confidence  of  success.  But  the  Homan  police  has  very 
little  efficacy,  except  in  the  interest  of  the  despotism  of 
which  it  is  a  tool.  With  their  cocked  hats,  shoulder- 
belts,  and  swords,  they  wear  a  sufficiently  imposing  as- 


198 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


pect,  and  doubtless  keep  tlieir  eyes  open  wide  enough  to 
track  a  political  offender,  but  are  too  often  blind  to  private 
outrage,  be  it  murder  or  any  lesser  crime.  Kenyon 
counted  little  upon  their  assistance,  and  profited  by  it 
not  at  all. 

Remembering  the  mystic  words  which  Miriam  had  ad¬ 
dressed  to  him,  he  was  anxious  to  meet  her,  but  knew 
not  whither  she  had  gone,  nor  how  to  obtain  an  interview' 
either  with  herself  or  Donatello.  The  days  wore  away, 
and  still  there  were  no  tidings  of  the  lost  one ;  no  lamp 
rekindled  before  the  Yirgin’s  shrine  ;  no  light  shining  into 
the  lover’s  heart ;  no  star  of  Hope  —  he  was  ready  to  say, 
as  he  turned  his  eyes  almost  reproachfully  upward  —  in 
heaven  itself ! 


/ 


CHAPTEE  XX. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  HILDA;S  DOVES. 


LONG  with  the  lamp  on  Hilda’s  tower,  the 
sculptor  now  felt  that  a  light  had  gone  out,  or, 
at  least,  was  ominously  obscured,  to  which  he 
owed  whatever  cheerfulness  had  heretofore  illuminated 
his  cold,  artistic  life.  The  idea  of  this  girl  had  been  like 
a  taper  of  virgin  wax,  burning  with  a  pure  and  steady 
flame,  and  chasing  away  the  evil  spirits  out  of  the  magic 
circle  of  its  beams.  It  had  darted  its  rays  afar,  and 
modified  the  whole  sphere  in  which  Kenyon  had  his  be¬ 
ing.  Beholding  it  no  more,  he  at  once  found  himself  in 
darkness  and  astray. 

This  was  the  time,  perhaps,  when  Kenyon  first  became 
sensible  what  a  dreary  city  is  Rome,  and  what  a  terrible 
weight  is  there  imposed  on  human  life,  when  any  gloom 
witliin  the  heart  corresponds  to  the  spell  of  ruin,  that  has 
been  thrown  over  the  site  of  ancient  empire.  He  wan¬ 
dered,  as  it  were,  and  stumbled  over  the  fallen  columns, 
and  among  the  tombs,  and  groped  his  way  into  the  sepul¬ 
chral  darkness  of  the  catacombs,  and  found  no  path 
emerging  from  them.  The  happy  may  well  enough  con¬ 
tinue  to  be  such,  beneath  the  brilliant  sky  of  Rome.  But, 
if  you  go  thither  in  melancholy  mood,  —  if  you  go  with  a 


200 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


ruin  in  your  heart,  or  with  a  vacant  site  there,  where 
once  stood  the  airy  fabric  of  happiness,  now  vanished,  — 
all  the  ponderous  gloom  of  the  Koman  Past  will  pile  itself 
upon  that  spot,  and  crush  you  down  as  with  the  heaped- 
np  marble  and  granite,  the  earth-mounds,  and  multitudi¬ 
nous  bricks  of  its  material  decay. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  a  melancholy  man  would 
here  make  acquaintance  with  a  grim  philosophy.  He 
should  learn  to  bear  patiently  his  individual  griefs,  that 
endure  only  for  one  little  lifetime,  when  here  are  the 
tokens  of  such  infiihte  misfortune  on  an  imperial  scale, 
and  when  so  many  far  landmarks  of  time,  all  around  him, 
are  bringing  the  remoteness  of  a  thousand  years  ago  into 
the  sphere  of  yesterday.  But  it  is  in  vain  that  you  seek 
this  shrub  of  bitter  sweetness  among  the  plants  that  root 
themselves  on  the  roughness  of  massive  walls,  or  trail 
downward  from  the  capitals  of  pillars,  or  spring  out  of 
the  green  turf  in  the  palace  of  the  Caesars.  It  does  not 
grow  in  Home  ;  not  even  among  the  five  hundred  various 
weeds  which  deck  the  grassy  arches  of  the  Coliseum. 
You  look  through  a  vista  of  century  beyond  century,  — 
through  much  shadow,  and  a  little  sunshine,  —  through 
barbarism  and  civilization,  alternating  with  one  another, 
like  actors  that  have  prearranged  their  parts, — through 
a  broad  pathway  of  progressive  generations  bordered  by 
palaces  and  temples,  and  bestridden  by  old,  triumphal 
arches,  until,  in  the  distance,  you  behold  the  obelisks, 
with  their  unintelligible  inscriptions,  hinting  at  a  past 
infinitely  more  remote  than  history  can  define.  Your 
own  life  is  as  nothing,  when  compared  with  that  immeas¬ 
urable  distance;  but  still  you  demand,  none  the  less 
earnestly,  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  instead  of  a  speck  of 
shadow,  on  the  step  or  two  that  will  bring  you  to  your 
quiet  rest. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  HILDA’S  DOVES. 


201 


How  exceedingly  absurd !  All  men,  from  tbe  date  of 
the  earliest  obelisk,  —  and  of  the  whole  world,  moreover, 
since  that  far  epoch,  and  before,  — have  made  a  similar 
demand,  and  seldom  bad  their  wish.  If  they  had  it,  what 
are  they  the  better  now  ?  But,  even  while  you  taunt 
yourself  with  this  sad  lesson,  your  heart  cries  out  ob¬ 
streperously  for  its  small  share  of  earthly  liappiness,  and 
will  not  be  appeased  by  the  myriads  of  dead  hopes  that 
lie  crushed  into  the  soil  of  Rome.  How  wonderful  that 
this  our  narrow  foothold  of  the  Present  should  hold  its 
own  so  constantly,  and,  while  every  moment  changing, 
should  still  be  like  a  rock  betwixt  the  encountering  tides 
of  the  long  Past  and  the  infinite  To-come  ! 

Man  of  marble  though  he  was,  the  sculptor  grieved  for 
the  Irrevocable.  Looking  back  upon  Hilda’s  way  of  life, 
he  marvelled  at  his  own  blind  stupidity,  which  had  kept 
him  from  remonstrating  —  as  a  friend,  if  with  no  stronger 
right  —  against  the  risks  that  she  continually  encountered. 
Being  so  innocent,  she  had  no  means  of  estimating  those 
risks,  nor  even  a  possibility  of  suspecting  their  existence. 
But  he  —  who  had  spent  years  in  Rome,  with  a  man’s  far 
wider  scope  of  observation  and  experience  —  knew  things 
tliat  made  him  shudder.  It  seemed  to  Kenyon,  looking 
through  the  darkly  colored  medium  of  his  fears,  that  all 
modes  of  crime  were  crowded  into  the  close  intricacy  of 
Roman  streets,  and  that  there  was  no  redeeming  element, 
such  as  exists  in  other  dissolute  and  wicked  cities. 

Por  here  was  a  priesthood,  pampered,  sensual,  with 
red  and  bloated  cheeks,  and  carnal  eyes.  With  ap¬ 
parently  a  grosser  development  of  animal  life  than  most 
men,  they  were  placed  in  an  unnatural  relation  with 
woman,  and  thereby  lost  the  healthy,  human  conscience 
that  pertains  to  other  liuman  beings,  who  own  tlie  sweet 
household  ties  connecting  them  with  wife  and  daughter. 

9  * 


202 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


And  here  was  an  indolent  nobility,  with  no  high  aims  or 
opportunities,  but  cultivating  a  vicious  way  of  life,  as  if  it 
were  an  art,  and  the  only  one  which  they  cared  to  learn. 
Here  was  a  population,  high  and  low,  that  had  no  genu¬ 
ine  belief  in  virtue;  and  if  they  recognized  any  act  as 
criminal,  they  might  throw  off  all  care,  remorse,  and 
memory  of  it,  by  kneeling  a  little  while  at  the  confes¬ 
sional,  and  rising  unburdened,  active,  elastic,  and  incited 
by  fresh  appetite  for  the  next  ensuing  sin.  Here  was  a 
soldiery  who  felt  Home  to  be  their  conquered  city,  and 
doubtless  considered  themselves  the  legal  inheritors  of  the 
foul  license  which  Gaul,  Goth,  and  Yandal  have  here  ex¬ 
ercised  in  days  gone  by. 

And  what  localities  for  new  crime  existed  in  those 
guilty  sites,  where  the  crime  of  departed  ages  used  to  be 
at  home,  and  had  its  long,  hereditary  haunt !  What  street 
in  Home,  what  ancient  ruin,  what  one  place  where  man 
had  standing-room,  what  fallen  stone  was  there,  unstained 
with  one  or  another  kind  of  guilt !  In  some  of  the  vicis¬ 
situdes  of  the  city’s  pride,  or  its  calamity,  the  dark  tide 
of  human  evil  had  swelled  over  it,  far  higher  than  the 
Tiber  ever  rose  against  the  acclivities  of  the  seven  hills. 
To  Kenyon’s  morbid  view,  there  appeared  to  be  a  con¬ 
tagious  element,  rising  fog-like  from  the  ancient  depravity 
of  Home,  and  brooding  over  the  dead  and  half-rotten 
city,  as  nowhere  else  on  earth.  It  prolonged  the  tendency 
to  crime,  and  developed  an  instantaneous  growth  of  it, 
whenever  an  opportunity  was  found.  And  where  could 
it  be  found  so  readily  as  here !  In  those  vast  palaces, 
there  were  a  hundred  remote  nooks  where  Innocence 
might  shriek  in  vain.  Beneath  meaner  houses  there 
were  unsuspected  dungeons  that  had  once  been  princely 
chambers,  and  open  to  the  daylight ;  but,  on  account  of 
some  wickedness  there  perpetrated,  each  passing  age  had 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  HILDA’S  DOVES.  203 


thrown  its  handful  of  dust  upon  the  spot,  and  buried  it 
from  sight.  Only  ruffians  knew  of  its  existenee,  and  kept 
it  for  murder,  and  worse  crime. 

Such  was  the  city  through  which  Hilda,  for  three  years 
past,  had  been  wandering  without  a  protector  or  a  guide. 
She  had  trodden  lightly  over  the  crumble  of  old  crimes ; 
she  had  taken  her  way  amid  the  grime  and  corruption 
which  Paganism  had  left  there,  and  a  perverted  Christian¬ 
ity  had  made  more  noisome ;  walking  saint-like  through 
it  all,  with  white,  innocent  feet ;  until,  in  some  dark  pit- 
fall  that  lay  right  across  her  path,  she  had  vanished  out 
of  sight.  It  was  terrible  to  imagine  what  hideous  out¬ 
rage  might  have  thrust  her  into  that  abyss ! 

Then  the  lover  tried  to  comfort  himself  with  the  idea 
that  Hilda’s  sanctity  was  a  sufficient  safeguard.  Ah,  yes ; 
she  was  so  pure  !  The  angels,  that  were  of  the  same 
sisterhood,  -would  never  let  Hilda  come  to  harm.  A 
miracle  would  be  wrought  on  her  behalf,  as  naturally  as 
a  father  would  stretch  out  his  hand  to  save  a  best-beloved 
child.  Providence  would  keep  a  little  area  and  atmos¬ 
phere  about  her,  as  safe  and  wholesome  as  heaven  itself, 
although  the  flood  of  perilous  iniquity  might  hem  her 
round,  and  its  black  waves  hang  curling  above  her  head ! 
But  these  reflections  were  of  slight  avail.  No  doubt  they 
were  the  religious  truth.  Yet  the  ways  of  Providence 
are  utterly  inscrutable;  and  many  a  murder  has  been 
done,  and  many  an  innocent  virgin  has  lifted  her  white 
arms,  beseeching  its  aid  in  her  extremity,  and  all  in  vain; 
so  tliat,  though  Providence  is  infinitely  good  and  wise, 
—  and  perhaps  for  that  very  reason,  —  it  may  be  half  an 
eternity  before  the  great  circle  of  its  scheme  shall  bring 
us  the  superabundant  recompense  for  all  these  sorrows  ! 
But  what  the  lover  asked  was  such  prompt  consolation 
as  might  consist  with  the  brief  span  of  mortal  life ;  the 


204 


ROMANCE  OE  MONTE  BENI. 


assurance  of  Hilda’s  present  safety,  and  her  restoration 
'vvitliiii  that  very  hour. 

An  imaginative  man,  he  suffered  the  penalty  of  his 
endowment  in  the  hundred-fold  variety  of  gloomily  tinted 
scenes  that  it  presented  to  him,  in  whieh  Hilda  was  always 
a  central  figure.  The  sculptor  forgot  his  marble,  Rome 
ceased  to  be  anything,  for  him,  but  a  labyrinth  of  dismal 
streets,  in  one  or  another  of  which  the  lost  girl  had  dis¬ 
appeared.  He  was  haunted  with  the  idea,  that  some 
eircumstance,  most  important  to  be  known,  and,  per¬ 
haps,  easily  discoverable,  had  hitherto  been  overlooked, 
and  that,  if  he  could  lay  hold  of  this  one  elew,  it  would 
guide  him  directly  in  the  track  of  Hilda’s  footsteps. 
With  this  purpose  in  view,  he  went,  every  morning,  to 
the  Via  Portoghese,  and  made  it  the  starting-point  of 
fresh  investigations.  After  nightfall,  too,  he  invariably 
returned  thither,  with  a  faint  hope  fluttering  .at  his  heart, 
that  the  lamp  might  again  be  shining  on  the  summit  of 
the  tower,  and  would  dispel  this  ugly  mystery  out  of 
the  circle  eonsecrated  by  its  rays.  There  being  no  point 
of  which  he  could  take  firm  hold,  his  mind  was  filled 
with  unsubstantial  hopes  and  fears.  Once,  Kenyon  had 
seemed  to  eut  his  life  in  marble ;  now  he  vaguely  clutched 
at  it,  and  found  it  vapor. 

In  his  unstrung  and  despondent  mood,  one  trifling 
circumstance  affeeted  him  with  an  idle  pang.  The  doves 
had  at  first  been  faithful  to  their  lost  mistress.  They 
failed  not  to  sit  in  a  row  upon  her  window-sill,  or  to 
alight  on  the  shrine,  or  the  ehurch-angels,  and  on  the 
roofs  and  portals  of  the  neighboring  houses,  in  evident 
expectation  of  her  reappearanee.  After  the  second 
week,  however,  they  began  to  take  flight,  and  dropping 
off  by  pairs,  betook  themselves  to  other  dove-cotes.  Only 
a  single  dove  remained,  and  brooded  drearily  beneath 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  HILDA’S  DOVES.  205 


the  shrine.  The  floek,  that  had  departed,  were  like  the 
many  hopes  that  had  vanished  from  Kenyon’s  heart ;  the 
one  that  still  lingered,  and  looked  so  wretehed,  —  was  it 
a  Hope,  or  already  a  Despair  ? 

In  the  street,  one  day,  the  sculptor  met  a  priest  of  mild 
and  venerable  aspect ;  and  as  his  mind  dwelt  continually 
upon  Hilda,  and  was  especially  active  in  bringing  up  all 
incidents  that  had  ever  been  connected  with  her,  it  im¬ 
mediately  struck  him  that  this  was  the  very  father  with 
whom  he  had  seen  her  at  the  confessional.  Such  trust 
did  Hilda  inspire  in  him,  that  Kenyon  had  never  asked 
what  was  the  subject  of  the  communication  between  her¬ 
self  and  this  old  priest.  He  had  no  reason  for  imagining 
that  it  could  have  any  relation  with  her  disappearance,  so 
long  subsequently ;  but,  being  thus  brought  face  to  face 
with  a  personage,  mysteriously  associated,  as  he  now 
remembered,  with  her  whom  he  had  lost,  an  impulse 
ran  before  his  thoughts  and  led  the  sculptor  to  address 
him. 

It  might  be  that  the  reverend  kindliness  of  the  old 
man’s  expression  took  Kenyon’s  heart  by  surprise;  at 
all  events,  he  spoke  as  if  there  were  a  recognized  ac¬ 
quaintanceship,  and  an  object  of  mutual  interest  between 
them. 

“  She  has  gone  from  me,  father,”  said  he. 

“  Of  whom  do  you  speak,  my  son  ?  ”  inquired  the 
priest. 

“  Of  that  sweet  girl,”  answered  Kenyon,  “  who  knelt 
to  you  at  the  confessional.  Surely,  you  remember  her, 
among  all  the  mortals  to  whose  confessions  you  have 
listened !  For  she  alone  could  have  had  no  sins  to 
reveal.” 

“  Yes ;  I  remember,”  said  the  priest,  with  a  gleam  of 
recollection  in  his  eyes.  “  She  was  made  to  bear  a 


206 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


miraculous  testimony  to  tlie  efficacy  of  the  divine  ordi¬ 
nances  of  the  Church,  by  seizing  forcibly  upon  one  of 
them,  and  finding  immediate  relief  from  it,  heretic  though 
she  vras.  It  is  my  purpose  to  publish  a  brief  narrative 
of  this  miraele,  for  the  edifieation  of  mankind,  in  Latin, 
Italian,  and  English,  from  the  printing-press  of  the  Prop¬ 
aganda.  Poor  child  !  Setting  apart  her  heresy,  she  was 
spotless,  as  you  say.  And  is  she  dead  ?  ’’ 

“  Heaven  forbid,  father !  ”  exclaimed  Kenyon,  shrink¬ 
ing  back.  But  she  has  gone  from  me,  I  know  not 
whither.  It  may  be  —  yes,  the  idea  seizes  upon  my 
mind  —  that  what  she  revealed  to  you  will  suggest  some 
clew  to  the  mystery  of  her  disappearanee.” 

“None,  my  son,  none,”  answered  the  priest,  shaking 
his  head ;  “nevertheless,  I  bid  you  be  of  good  eheer.  That 
young  maiden  is  not  doomed  to  die  a  heretic.  Who 
knows  what  the  Blessed  Virgin  may  at  this  moment  be 
doing  for  her  soul !  Perhaps,  when  you  next  behold  her, 
she  will  be  clad  in  the  shining  white  robe  of  the  true 
faith.” 

This  latter  suggestion  did  not  convey  all  the  comfort 
which  the  old  priest  possibly  intended  by  it ;  but  he  im¬ 
parted  it  to  the  seulptor,  along  with  his  blessing,  as  the 
Wo  best  things  that  he  could  bestow,  and  said  nothing 
further,  except  to  bid  him  farewell. 

When  they  had  parted,  however,  the  idea  of  Hilda’s 
conversion  to  Catholieism  recurred  to  her  lover’s  mind, 
bringing  with  it  eertain  refleetions,  that  gave  a  new  turn 
to  his  surmises  about  the  mystery  into  which  she  had 
vanished.  Not  that  he  seriously  apprehended  —  although 
the  superabundanee  of  her  religious  sentiment  might  mis¬ 
lead  her  for  a  moment  —  that  the  New  England  girl  would 
permanently  sueeumb  to  the  scarlet  superstitions  which 
surrounded  her  in  Italy.  But  the  ineident  of  the  con- 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  HILDA’S  DOVES.  207 

fessioiial  —  if  known,  as  probably  it  was,  to  the  eager 
propagandists  who  prowl  about  for  souls,  as  cats  to  catch 
a  mouse  —  would  surely  inspire  the  most  confident  ex¬ 
pectations  of  bringing  her  over  to  the  faith.  With  so 
pious  an  end  in  view,  would  Jesuitical  morality  be  shocked 
at  the  thought  of  kidnapping  the  mortal  body,  for  the 
sake  of  the  immortal  spirit  that  might  otherwise  be  lost 
forever?  TV^ould  not  the  kind  old  priest,  himsell,  deem 
this  to  be  infinitely  the  kindest  service  that  he  could 
perform  for  the  stray  lamb,  who  had  so  strangely  sought 
his  aid  ? 

If  these  suppositions  were  well  founded,  Hilda  was 
most  likely  a  prisoner  in  one  of  the  religious  establish¬ 
ments  that  are  so  numerous  in  Rome,  The  idea,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  aspect  in  which  it  was  viewed,  brought  now  a 
degree  of  comfort,  and  now  an  additional  perplexity .  On 
the  one  hand,  Hilda  was  sate  from  any  but  spiritual  as¬ 
saults  ;  on  the  other,  where  was  the  possibility  of  break¬ 
ing  through  all  those  barred  portals,  and  searching  a 
thousand  convent-cells,  to  set  her  free? 

Kenyon,  however,  as  it  happened,  was  prevented  from 
endeavoring  to  follow  out  this  surmise,  which  only  the 
state  of  hopeless  uncertainty,  that  almost  bewildered  his 
reason,  could  have  led  him  for  a  moment  to  entertain. 
A  communication  reached  him  by  an  unknown  hand,  in 
consequence  of  which,  and  within  an  hour  after  receiving 
it,  he  took  his  way  through  one  of  the  gates  of  Rome. 


CHAPTEE  XXI. 

A  WALK  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA. 

T  was  a  bright  forenoon  of  Eebruary ;  a  month 
in  which  the  brief  severity  of  a  Roman  winter 
is  already  past,  and  when  violets  and  daisies 
begin  to  show  themselves  in  spots  favored  by  the  sun. 
The  sculptor  came  out  of  the  city  by  the  gate  of  San 
Sebastiano,  and  walked  briskly  along  the  Appian  Way. 

Eor  the  space  of  a  mile  or  two  beyond  the  gate,  this 
ancient  and  famous  road  is  as  desolate  and  disagreeable  as 
^  most  of  the  other  Roman  avenues.  It  extends  over  small, 
uncomfortable  paving-stones,  between  brick  and  plastered 
walls,  which  are  very  solidly  constructed,  and  so  high  as 
almost  to  exclude  a  view  of  the  surrounding  country.  The 
houses  are  of  most  uninviting  aspect,  neither  picturesque, 
nor  homelike  and  social ;  they  have  seldom  or  never  a 
door  opening  on  the  vmyside,  but  are  accessible  only 
from  the  rear,  and  frown  inhospitably  upon  the  traveller 
through  iron-grated  windows.  Here  and  there  appears 
a  dreary  inn,  or  a  wine-shop,  designated  by  the  withered 
bush  beside  the  entrance,  within  which  you  discern  a 
stone-built  and  sepulchral  interior,  where  guests  refresh 
themselves  with  sour  bread  and  goats’-milk  cheese,  washed 
down  with  wine  of  dolorous  acerbity. 


,/  ' 


I 


•1 

i/.J? 


jl. 


A  WALK  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA. 


209 


At  frequent  intervals  along  the  roadside  uprises  the 
ruin  of  an  ancient  tomb.  As  they  stand  now,  these 
structures  are  immensely  high  and  broken  mounds  of 
conglomerated  brick,  stone,  pebbles,  and  earth,  all  molten 
by  time  into  a  mass  as  solid  and  indestructible  as  if 
each  tomb  were  composed  of  a  single  bowlder  of  granite. 
When  first  erected,  they  were  cased  externally,  no  doubt, 
with  slabs  of  polished  marble,  artfully  wrought  bas-reliefs, 
and  all  such  suitable  adornments,  and  were  rendered  ma¬ 
jestically  beautiful  by  grand  architectural  designs.  This 
antique  splendor  has  long  since  been  stolen  from  the 
dead,  to  decorate  the  palaces  and  churches  of  the  living. 
Nothing  remains  to  the  dishonored  sepulchres,  except 
their  massiveness. 

Even  the  pyramids  form  hardly  a  stranger  spectacle, 
or  are  more  alien  from  human  sympathies,  than  the  tombs 
of  the  Appian  Way,  with  their  gigantic  height,  breadth, 
and  solidity,  defying  time  and  the  elements,  and  far  too 
mighty  to  be  demolished  by  an  ordinary  earthquake. 
Here  you  may  see  a  mpdern  dwelling,  and  a  garden  with 
its  vines  and  olive-trees,  perched  on  the  lofty  dilapidation 
of  a  tomb,  which  forms  a  precipice  of  fifty  feet  in  depth  on 
each  of  the  four  sides.  There  is  a  home  on  that  funereal 
mound,  where  generations  of  children  have  been  born, 
and  successive  lives  been  spent,  undisturbed  by  the  ghost 
of  the  stern  Roman  whose  ashes  were  so  preposterously 
burdened.  Other  sepulchres  wear  a  crown  of  grass, 
shrubbery,  and  forest-trees,  which  throw  out  a  broad 
sweep  of  branches,  having  had  time,  twice  over,  to  be  a 
thousand  years  of  age.  On  one  of  them  stands  a  tower, 
which,  though  immemorially  more  modern  than  the  tomb, 
was  itself  built  by  immemorial  hands,  and  is  now  rifted 
quite  from  top  to  bottom  by  a  vast  fissure  of  decay ;  the 
tomb-hillock,  its  foundation,  being  still  as  firm  as  ever, 

N 


210 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


and  likely  to  endure  until  tlie  last  trump  sliall  rend  it 
wide  asunder,  and  summon  forth  its  unknown  dead. 

Yes;  its  unknown  dead!  Tor,  except  in  one  or  two 
doubtful  instances,  these  mountainous  sepulchral  edifices 
have  not  availed  to  keep  so  much  as  the  bare  name  of 
an  individual  or  a  family  from  oblivion.  Ambitious  of 
everlasting  remembrance,  as  they  were,  the  slumberers 
might  just  as  well  have  gone  quietly  to’  rest,  each  in  his 
pigeon-hole  of  a  columbaria,  or  under  his  little  green 
hillock,  in  a  graveyard,  without  a  headstone  to  mark  the 
spot.  It  is  rather  satisfactory  than  otherwise,  to  think 
that  all  these  idle  pains  have  turned  out  so  utterly  abor¬ 
tive. 

About  two  miles,  or  more,  from  the  city-gate,,  and  right 
upon  the  roadside,  Kenyon  passed  an  immense  round 
pile,  sepulchral  in  its  original  purposes,  like  those  al¬ 
ready  mentioned.  It  was  built  of  great  blocks  of  hewn 
stone,  on  a  vast,  square  foundation  of  rough,  agglomer¬ 
ated  material,  such  as  composes  the  mass  of  all  the  other 
ruinous  tombs.  But  whatever  might  be  the  cause,  it 
was  in  a  far  better  state  of  preservation  than  they.  On 
its  broad  summit  rose  the  battlements  of  a  mediaeval  for¬ 
tress,  out  of  the  midst  of  which  (so  long  since  had  time 
begun  to  crumble  the  supplemental  structure,  and  cover 
it  with  soil,  by  means  of  wayside  dust)  grew  trees,  bushes, 
and  thick  festoons  of  ivy.  This  tomb  of  a  woman  had 
become  the  citadel  and  donjon-keep  of  a  castle ;  and  all 
the  care  that  Cecilia  Metella’s  husband  could  bestow,  to 
secure  endless  peace  for  her  beloved  relics,  had  only  suf¬ 
ficed  to  make  that  handful  of  precious  ashes  the  nucleus 
of  battles,  long  ages  after  her  death. 

A  little  beyond  this  point,  the  sculptor  turned  aside 
from  the  Appian  Way,  and  directed  his  course  across  the 
Campagna,  guided  by  tokens  that  were  obvious  onlj#to 


A  WALK  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA. 


211 


liimself.  On  one  side  of  him,  but  at  a  distance,  the  Clau- 
dian  aqueduct  was  striding  over  fields  and  water-courses. 
Before  him,  many  miles  away,  with  a  blue  atmosphere 
between,  rose  the  Alban  hills,  brilliantly  silvered  with 
snow  and  sunshine. 

He  was  not  without  a  companion.  A  buffalo-calf,  that 
seemed  shy  and  sociable  by  the  self-same  impulse,  had 
begun  to  make  acquaintance  with  him,  from  the  moment 
when  he  left  the  road.  This  frolicsome  creature  gam¬ 
bolled  along,  now  before,  now  behind;  standing  a  mo¬ 
ment  to  gaze  at  him,  with  wild,  curious  eyes,  he  leaped 
aside  and  shook  his  shaggy  head,  as  Kenyon  advanced 
too  nigh ;  then,  after  loitering  in  the  rear,  he  came  gallop¬ 
ing  up,  like  a  charge  of  cavalry,  but  halted,  all  of  a  sud¬ 
den,  when  the  sculptor  turned  to  look,  and  bolted  across 
the  Campagna,  at  the  slightest  signal  of  nearer  approach. 
The  young,  sportive  thing,  Kenyon  half  fancied,  was 
serving  him  as  a  guide,  like  the  heifer  that  led  Cadmus 
to  the  site  of  his  destined  city ;  for,  in  spite  of  a  hundred 
vagaries,  his  general  course  was  in  the  right  direction, 
and  along  by  several  objects  which  the  sculptor  had 
noted  as  landmarks  of  his  way. 

In  this  natural  intercourse  with  a  Tude  and  healthy 
form  of  animal  life,  there  was  something  that  wonderfully 
revived  Kenyon’s  spirits.  The  warm  rays  of  the  sun, 
too,  were  wholesome  for  him  in  body  and  soul ;  and  so 
was  a  breeze  that  bestirred  itself  occasionally,  as  if  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  breathing  upon  his  cheek,  and  dying 
softly  away,  when  he  would  fain  have  felt  a  little  more 
decided  kiss.  This  shy,  but  loving  breeze  reminded  him 
strangely  of  what  Hilda’s  deportment  had  sometimes 
been  towards  himself. 

The  weather  had  very  much  to  do,  no  doubt,  with 
these  genial  and  delightful  sensations,  that  made  the 


212 


ROMANCE  OE  MONTE  BENI. 


sculptor  so  happy  with  mere  life,  in  spite  of  a  head  and 
heart  full  of  doleful  thoughts,  anxieties,  and  fears,  which 
ought  in  all  reason  to  have  depressed  him.  It  was  like 
no  weather  that  exists  anywhere,  save  in  Paradise  and  in 
Italy ;  certainly  not  in  America,  where  it  is  always  too 
strenuous  on  the  side  either  of  heat  or  cold.  Young  as 
the  season  was,  and  wintry  as  it  would  have  been  under 
a  more  rigid  sky,  it  resembled  summer  rather  than  what 
we  New-Englanders  recognize  in  our  idea  of  spring. 
But  there  was  an  indeseribable  something,  sweet,  fresh, 
and  remotely  affectionate,  which  the  matronly  summer 
loses,  and  which  thrilled,  and,  as  it  were,  tickled  Ken¬ 
yon’s  heart  with  a  feeling  partly  of  the  senses,  yet  far 
more  a  spiritual  delight.  In  a  word,  it  was  as  if  Hilda’s 
delicate  breath  were  on  his  cheek. 

After  walking  at  a  brisk  pace  for  about  half  an  hour, 
he  reached  a  spot  where  an  excavation  appeared  to  have 
been  begun,  at  some  not  very  distant  period.  There  was 
a  hollow  space  in  the  earth,  looking  exceedingly  like 
a  deserted  cellar,  being  enclosed  within  old  subterranean 
walls,  constructed  of  thin  Roman  bricks,  and  made  aeces- 
sible  by  a  narrow  flight  of  stone  steps.  A  suburban  villa 
had  probably  stoo‘d  over  this  site,  in  the  imperial  days  of 
Rome,  and  these  might  have  been  the  ruins  of  a  bath¬ 
room,  or  some  other  apartment  that  was  required  to  be 
wholly  or  partly  under  ground.  A  spade  can  scarcely 
be  put  into  that  soil,  so  rich  in  lost  and  forgotten  things, 
wit  hout  hitting  upon  some  discovery  which  would  attract 
all  eyes,  in  any  other  land.  If  you  dig  but  a  little  way, 
you  gather  bits  of  precious  marble,  coins,  rings,  and  en¬ 
graved  gems ;  if  you  go  deeper,  you  break  into  colum¬ 
baria,  or  into  sculptured  and  richly  frescoed  apartments 
that  look  like  festive  halls,  but  were  only  sepulchres. 

The  sculptor  descended  into  the  cellar-like  cavity,  and 


A  WALK  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA. 


213 


sat  down  on  a  block  of  stone.  His  eagerness  had  brouglit 
him  thither  sooner  than  the  appointed  hour.  The  sun¬ 
shine  fell  slantwise  into  the  hollow,  and  happened  to  he 
resting  on  what  Kenyon  at  first  took  to  be  a  shapeless 
fragment  of  stone,  possibly  marble,  which  was  partly  con¬ 
cealed  by  the  crumbling  down  of  earth. 

But  his  practised  eye  was  soon  aware  of  something 
artistie  in  this  rude  object.  To  relieve  the  anxious  te¬ 
dium  of  his  situation,  he  cleared  away  some  of  the  soil, 
which  seemed  to  have  fallen  very  recently,  and  discovered 
a  headles  figure  of  marble.  It  was  earth-stained,  as  well 
it  miglit  be,  and  had  a  slightly  corroded  surface,  but  at 
onee  impressed  the  sculptor  as  a  Greek  production,  and 
wonderfully  delicate  and  beautiful.  The  head  was  gone  ; 
both  arms  were  broken  off  at  the  elbows.  Protruding 
from  the  loose  earth,  however,  Kenyon  beheld  the  fingers 
of  a  marble  hand  ;  it  was  still  appended  to  its  arm,  and 
a  little  further  search  enabled  him  to  find  the  other. 
Placing  these  limbs  in  what  the  nice  adjustment  of  the 
fractures  proved  to  be  their  true  position,  the  poor,  frag¬ 
mentary  woman  forthwith  showed  that  she  retained  her 
modest  instincts  to  the  last.  She  had  perished  with 
them,  and  snatehed  them  back  at  the  moment  of  revival. 
Por  these  long-buried  hands  immediately  disposed  them¬ 
selves  in  the  manner  that  nature  prompts,  as  the  antique 
artist  knew,  and  as  all  the  world  has  seen,  in  the  Venus 
de’  Medici. 

“  What  a  discovery  is  here  !  ”  thought  Kenyon  to  him¬ 
self.  “  I  seek  for  Hilda,  and  find  a  marble  woman  !  Is 
the  omen  good  or  ill  ?  ” 

In  a  corner  of  the  excavation  lay  a  small  round  block 
of  stone,  much  incrusted  with  earth  that  had  dried  and 
hardened  upon  it.  So,  at  least,  you  would  have  described 
this  object,  until  the  sculptor  lifted  it,  turned  it  hither 


214 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


and  thither  in  his  hands,  brushed  off  the  clinging  soil,  and 
finally  placed  it  on  the  slender  neck  of  the  newly  discov¬ 
ered  statue.  The  effect  was  magical.  It  immediately 
lighted  up  and  vivified  the  whole  figure,  endowing  it  with 
personality,  soul,  and  intelligence.  The  beautiful  Idea  at 
once  asserted  its  immortality,  and  converted  that  heap  of 
forlorn  fragments  into  a  whole,  as  perfect  to  the  mind,  if 
not  to  the  eye,  as  when  the  new  marble  gleamed  with 
snowy  lustre;  nor  was  the  impression  marred  by  the 
earth  that  still  hung  upon  the  exquisitely  graceful  limbs, 
and  even  filled  the  lovely  crevice  of  the  lips.  Kenyon 
cleared  it  away  from  between  them,  apd  almost  deemed 
liimself  rewarded  with  a  living  smile. 

It  was  either  the  prototype  or  a  better  repetition  of  the 
Venus  of  the  Tribune.  But  those  who  have  been  dissat¬ 
isfied  with  the  small  head,  the  narrow,  soulless  face,  the 
buttonhole  eyelids,  of  that  famous  statue,  and  its  mouth 
such  as  nature  never  moulded,  should  see  the  genial 
breadth  of  this  far  nobler  and  sweeter  countenance.  It 
is  one  of  the  few  W'orks  of  antique  sculpture  in  which  we 
recognize  womanhood,  and  that,  moreover,  without  preju¬ 
dice  to  its  divinity. 

Here,  then,  was  a  treasure  for  the  sculptor  to  have 
found !  How  happened  it  to  be  lying  there,  beside  its 
grave  of  twenty  centuries  ?  Why  were  not  the  tidings 
of  its  discovery  already  noised  abroad  ?  The  world  was 
richer  than  yesterday,  by  something  far  more  precious 
than  gold.  Borgotten  beauty  had  come  back,  as  beauti¬ 
ful  as  ever;  a  goddess  had  risen  from  her  long  slumber, 
and  was  a  goddess  still.  Another  cabinet  in  the  Vatican 
was  destined  to  shine  as  lustrously  as  that  of  the  Apollo 
Belvedere ;  or,  if  the  aged  pope  should  resign  his  claim, 
an  emperor  would  woo  this  tender  marble,  and  win  her 
as  proudly  as  an  imperial  bride  ! 


A  WALK  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA. 


215 


Such  were  the  thoughts  with  which  Kenyon  exagger¬ 
ated  to  himself  the  importance  of  the  newly  discovered 
statue,  and  strove  to  feel  at  least  a  portion  of  the  interest 
which  this  event  would  have  inspired  in  him  a  little  while 
before.  But,  in  reality,  he  found  it  difficult  to  fix  his 
mind  upon  the  subject.  He  could  hardly,  we  fear,  be 
reckoned  a  consummate  artist,  because  there  was  some¬ 
thing  dearer  to  him  than  his  art ;  and,  by  the  greater 
strength  of  a  human  affection,  the  divine  statue  seemed 
to  fall  asunder  again,  and  become  only  a  heap  of  worth¬ 
less  fragments. 

While  the  sculptor  sat  listlessly  gazing  at  it,  there  was 
a  sound  of  small  hoofs,  clumsily  galloping  on  the  Cam- 
pagna ;  and,  soon,  his  frisky  acquaintance,  the  buffalo- 
calf,  came  and  peeped  over  the  edge’  of  the  excavation. 
Almost  at  the  same  moment,  he  heard  voices,  which 
approached  nearer  and  nearer ;  a  man’s  voice,  and  a 
feminine  one,  talking  the  musical  tongue  of  Italy.  Be¬ 
sides  the  hairy  visage  of  his  four-footed  friend,  Kenyon 
now  saw  the  figures  of  a  peasant  and  a  contadina,  making 
gestures  of  salutation  to  him,  on  the  opposite  verge  of 
the  hollow  space. 


CHA.PTER  XXII. 

THE  PEASANT  AND  CONTADINA. 

IIEY  descended  into  tlie  excavation;  a  young 
peasant,  in  the  short  blue  jacket,  the  sinall- 
clothes  buttoned  at  the  knee,  and  buckled  shoes, 
that  compose  one  of  the  ugliest  dresses  ever  worn  by  man, 
except  the  wearer’s  form  have  a  grace  which  any  garb,  or 
the  nudity  of  an  antique  statue,  would  equally  set  olf ; 
and,  hand  in  hand  with  him,  a  village  girl,  in  one  of  those 
brilliant  costumes  largely  kindled  up  with  scarlet,  and 
decorated  with  gold  embroidery,  in  which  the  contadinas 
array  themselves  on  feast-days.  But  Kenyon  was  not 
deceived  ;  he  had  recognized  the  voices  of  his  friends, 
indeed,  even  before  their  disguised  figures  came  between 
him  and  the  sunlight.  Donatello  was  the  peasant ;  the 
contadina,  with  the  airy  smile,  half  mirthful,  though  it 
shone  out  of  melancholy  eyes,  —  was  Miriam. 

They  both  greeted  the  sculptor  with  a  familiar  kindness 
which  reminded  him  of  the  days  when  Hilda  and  they 
and  he  had  lived  so  happily  together,  before  the  mys¬ 
terious  adventure  of  the  catacomb.  What  a  succession 
of  sinister  events  had  followed  one  spectral  figure  out  of 
that  gloomy  labyrinth. 

“It  is  carnival  time,  you  know,”  said  Miriam,  as  if 


THE  PEASANT  AND  CONTADINA.  217 

ill  explanation  of  Donatello’s  and  her  own  eostume. 
“  Do  you  remember  how  merrily  we  spent  the  carnival, 
last  year  ?  ” 

“It  seems  many  years  ago,”  replied  Kenyon.  “We 
are  all  so  changed !  ” 

When  individuals  approach  one  another  with  deep  pur¬ 
poses  on  both  sides,  they  seldom  come  at  once  to  the 
matter  which  they  have  most  at  heart.  They  dread  the 
electric  shock  of  a  too  sudden  contact  with  it.  A  natural 
impulse  leads  them  to  steal  gradually  onward,  hiding 
themselves,  as  it  were,  behind  a  closer,  and  still  a  closer 
topic,  until  they  stand  face  to  face  with  the  true  point 
of  interest.  Miriam  was  conscious  of  this  impulse,  and 
partially  obeyed  it; 

“  So,  your  instincts  as  a  sculptor  have  brought  yon 
into  the  presence  of  our  newly  discovered  statue,”  she 
observed.  “  Is  it  not  beautiful  ?  A  far  truer  image  of 
immortal  womanhood  than  the  poor  little  damsel  at  Dlor- 
ence,  world-famous  though  she  be.” 

“  Most  beautiful,”  said  Kenyon,  casting  an  indifferent 
glance  at  the  Venus.  “The  time  has  been  when  the 
siglit  of  this  statue  would  have  been  enough  to  make 
the  day  memorable.” 

“  And  will  it  not  do  so,  now  ?  ”  Miriam  asked.  “  I 
fancied  so,  indeed,  when  we  discovered  it  two  days  ago. 
It  is  Donatello’s  prize.  We  were  sitting  here  together, 
I)lanning  an  interview  with  you,  when  his  keen  eyes  de¬ 
tected  the  fallen  goddess,  almost  entirely  buried  under 
that  heap  of  earth,  whieli  the  clumsy  excavators  showered 
down  upon  her,  I  suppose.  We  congratulated  ourselves, 
chiefly  for  your  sake.  The  eyes  of  us  three  are  the  only 
ones  to  which  she  has  yet  revealed  herself.  Does  it  not 
frighten  you  a  little,  like  the  apparition  of  a  lovely  wo¬ 
man  that  lived  of  old,  and  has  long  lain  in  the  grave  ?  ” 

VOL.  II.  10 


218 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  Ah,  Miriam  !  I  cannot  respond  to  you,”  said  the 
sculptor,  with  irrepressible  impatience.  “  Imagination 
and  the  love  of  art  have  both  died  out  of  me.” 

“Miriam,”  interposed  Donatello,  with  gentle  gravity, 
“why  should  we  keep  our  friend  in  suspense?  We 
know  what  anxiety  he  feels.  Let  us  give  him  what  in¬ 
telligence  we  can.” 

“  You  are  so  direct  aud  immediate,  my  beloved  friend  !  ” 
answered  Miriam  with  an  unquiet  smile.  “  There  are 
several  reasons  why  I  should  like  to  play  round  this 
matter  a  little  while,  and  cover  it  with  fanciful  thoughts, 
as  we  strew  a  grave  with  flowers.” 

“  A  grave  !  ”  exclaimed  the  sculptor. 

“No  grave  in  which  your  heart  need  be  buried,”  she 
replie’d ;  “  you  have  no  such  calamity  to  dread.  But  I 
linger  aud  hesitate,  because  every  word  I  speak  brings 
me  nearer  to  a  crisis  from  which  I  shrink.  Ah,  Dona¬ 
tello  !  let  us  live  a  little  longer  the  life  of  these  last  few 
days !  It  is  so  bright,  so  aiiy,  so  childlike,  so  without 
either  past  or  future  !  Here,  on  the  wild  Campagna,  you 
seem  to  have  found,  both  for  yourself  and  me,  the  life 
that  belonged  to  you  in  early  youth ;  the  sweet  irrespon¬ 
sible  life  which  you  inherited  from  your  mythic  ancestry, 
the  Banns  of  Monte  Beni.  Our  stern  and  black  reality 
will  come  upon  us  speedily  enough.  But,  first,  a  brief 
time  more  of  this  strange  happiness.” 

“I  dare  not  linger  upon  it,”  answered  Donatello,  with 
an  expression  that  reminded  the  sculptor  of  the  gloomiest 
d:\ys  of  his  remorse  at  Monte  Beni.  “  I  dare  to  be  so 
happy  as  you  have  seen  me,  only  because  I  have  felt  the 
time  to  be  so  brief.” 

“  One  day,  then  !  ”  pleaded  Miriam.  “  One  more  day 
in  the  wild  freedom  of  this  sweet-scented  air.” 

“Well,  one  more  day,”  said  Donatello,  smiling;  and 


THE  PEASANT  AND  CONTADINA.  219 

liis  smile  touched  Kenyon  with  a  pathos  beyond  words, 
there  being  gayety  and  sadness  both  melted  into  it ;  “  but 
here  is  Hdda’s  friend,  and  our  own.  Comfort  him,  at 
least,  and  set  Ids  heart  at  rest,  since  you  have  it  partly 
in  your  power.” 

“Ah,  surely  he  might  endure  his  pangs  a  little  lon¬ 
ger  !  ”  cried  Miriam,  turning  to  Kenyon  with  a  tricksy, 
fitful  kind  of  mirth,  that  served  to  hide  some  solemn 
necessity,  too  sad  and  serious  to  be  looked  at  in  its 
naked  aspect.  “  You  love  us  both,  I  think,  and  will 
be  content  to  suffer  for  our  sakes,  one  other  day.  Do 
I  ask  too  much  ?  ” 

“Tell  me  of  Hilda,”  replied  the  sculptor;  “tell  me 
only  that  she  is  safe,  and  keep  back  what  else  you 
will.” 

“  Hilda  is  safe,”  said  Miriam.  “  There  is  a  Provi¬ 
dence  purposely  for  Hilda,  as  I  remember  to  have  told 
you  long  ago.  But  a  great  trouble  —  an  evil  deed,  let 
us  acknowledge  it  —  has  spread  out  its  dark  branches  so 
widely,  that  the  shadow  falls  on  innocence  as  well  as 
guilt.  There  was  one  slight  link  that  connected  your 
sweet  Hilda  with  a  crime  which  it  was  her  unhappy  for¬ 
tune  to  witness,  but  of  which  I  need  not  say  she  was  as 
guiltless  as  the  angels  that  looked  out  of  heaven,  and 
saw  it  too.  No  matter,  now,  what  the  consequence  has 
been.  You  shall  have  your  lost  Hilda  back,  and  —  who 
knows  ?  —  perhaps  tenderer  than  she  was.” 

“  But  when  will  she  return  ?  ”  persisted  the  sculptor ; 
“tell  me  the  when,  and  where,  and  how !  ” 

“A  little  patience.  Do  not  press  me  so,”  said  Mir¬ 
iam;  and  again  Kenyon  was  struck  by  the  spritelike, 
fitful  characteristic  of  her  manner,  and  a  sort  of  hysteric 
gayety,  which  seemed  to  be  a  will-o’-the-wisp  from  a  sor¬ 
row  stagnant  at  her  heart.  “You  have  more  time  to 


220 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


spare  than  I.  First,  listen  to  something  that  I  have  to 
tell.  We  will  talk  of  Hilda  by  and  by.’’ 

Then  Miriam  spoke  of  her  own  life,  and  told  facts  that 
threw  a  gleam  of  light  over  many  things  which  had  per- 
idexed  the  sculptor  in  all  his  previous  knowledge  of  her. 
She  described  herself  as  springing  from  English  parent¬ 
age,  on  the  mother’s  side,  but  with  a  vein,  likewise,  of 
Jewish  blood;  yet  connected,  through  her  father,  with 
one  of  those  few  princely  families  of  Southern  Italy, 
which  still  retain  a  great  wealth  and  influence.  And 
she  revealed  a  name,  at  which  her  auditor  started,  and 
grew  pale ;  for  it  was  one  that,  only  a  few  years  before, 
had  been  familiar  to  the  world,  in  connection  with  a  mys¬ 
terious  and  terrible  event.  The  reader  —  if  he  think  it 
worth  while  to  recall  some  of  the  strange  incidents  which 
have  been  talked  of,  and  forgotten,  within  no  long  time 
past —  will  remember  Miriam’s  name. 

“  You  shudder  at  me,  I  perceive,”  said  Miriam,  sud¬ 
denly  interrupting  her  narrative. 

“No;  you  were  innocent,”  replied  the  sculptor.  “I 
shudder  at  the  fatality  that  seems  to  haunt  your  foot¬ 
steps,  and  throws  a  shadow  of  crime  about  your  path, 
you  being  guiltless.” 

“  There  was  such  a  fatality,”  said  Miriam ;  “  yes ;  the 
shadow  fell  upon  me,  innocent,  but  I  went  astray  in  it, 
and  wandered  —  as  Hilda  could  tell  you  —  into  crime.” 

Sh::  went  on  to  say,  that,  while  yet  a  child,  she  had  lost 
her  English  mother.  Erom  a  very  early  period  of  her 
life,  there  had  been  a  contract  of  betrothal  between  her¬ 
self  and  a  certain  marchese,  the  representative  of  another 
branch  of  her  paternal  house,  —  a  family  arraugemcnt 
between  two  persons  of  disproportioned  ages,  and  in  whicli 
feeling  went  for  nothing.  Most  Italian  girls  of  noble  rank 
would  have  yielded  themselves  to  such  a  marriage,  as  an 


THE  -PEASANT  AND  CONTADINA. 


221 


affair  of  course.  But  tliere  was  something  in  Miriam’s 
blooil,  ill  her  mixed  raee,  in  her  reeollections  of  her 
mother, —  some  charaeteristie,  finally,  in  her  own  nature, 
—  whieh  had  given  her  freedom  of  thought,  and  foree  of 
will,  and  made  this  prearranged  eonnection  odious  to  her. 
Moreover,  the  eharaeter  of  her  destined  husband  would 
have  been  a  sufficient  and  insuperable  objection ;  for  it 
betrayed  traits  so  evil,  so  treacherous,  so  wild,  and  yet  so 
strangely  subtle,  as  could  only  be  accounted  for  by  the 
insanity  which  often  develops  itself  in  old,  close-kept 
races  of  men,  when  long  nnmixed  with  newer  blood. 
Beaching  the  age  when  the  marriage  contract  should 
liave  been  fulfilled,  Miriam  had  utterly  repudiated  it. 

Some  time  afterwards  had  occurred  that  terrible  event 
to  which  Miriam  had  alluded,  when  she  revealed  her 
name  ;  an  event,  the  frightful  and  mysterious  circum¬ 
stances  of  which  will  recur  to  many  minds,  but  of  which 
few  or  none  can  have  found  for  themselves  a  satisfactory 
explanation.  It  only  concerns  the  present  narrative,  inas¬ 
much  as  the  suspicion  of  being  at  least  an  accomplice  in 
the  crime  fell  darkly  and  directly  upon  Miriam  herself. 

“  But  you  know  that  I  am  innocent !  ”  she  cried, 
interrupting  herself  again,  and  looking  Kenyon  in  the 
face. 

“I  know  it  by  my  deepest  consciousness,”  he  an¬ 
swered  ;  “  and  I  know  it  by  Hilda’s  trust  and  entire  af¬ 
fection,  which  you  never  could  have  won  had  you  been 
capable  of  guilt.” 

“  That  IS  sure  ground,  indeed,  for  pronouncing  me  in¬ 
nocent,”  said  Miriam,  with  the  tears  gushing  into  her 
eyes.  “  Yet  I  have  since  become  a  horror  to  your  saint¬ 
like  Hilda,  by  a  crime  which  she  herself  saw  me  help  to 
perpetrate  !  ” 

She  proceeded  with  her  story.  The  great  influence  of 


222 


BOMANCE  OF  AIONTE  BENI. 


her  family  connections  liad  shielded  her  from  some  of  the 
consequences  of  her  imputed  guilt.  But,  in  her  despair, 
she  had  fled  from  home,  and  had  surrounded  her' flight 
with  such  circumstances  as  rendered  it  the  most  probable 
conclusion  that  she  had  committed  suicide.  Miriam,  how¬ 
ever,  was  not  of  the  feeble  nature  which  takes  advantage 
of  that  obvious  and  poor  resouree  in  earthly  ditficulties. 
She  flung  herself  upon  the  world,  and  speedily  created  a 
new  sphere,  in  whicly  Hilda’s  gentle  purity,  the  sculp¬ 
tor’s  sensibility,  clear  thought,  and  genius,  and  Donatello’s 
genial  simplicity,  had  given  her  almost  her  first  experi¬ 
ence  of  happiness.  Then  came  that  ill-omened  adventure 
of  the  catacomb.  The  spectral  figure  which  she  encoun¬ 
tered  there  was  the  evil  fate  that  had  haunted  her  through 
life. 

Looking  back  upon  what  had  happened,  Miriam  ob¬ 
served,  she  now  considered  him  a  madman.  Insanity 
must  have  been  mixed  up  with  his  original  composition, 
and  developed  by  those  very  acts  of  depravity  which  it 
suggested,  and  still  more  intensified  by  the  remorse  that 
ultimately  followed  them.  Nothing  was  stranger  in  his 
dark  career,  than  the  penitence  which  often  seemed  to  go 
hand  in  hand  with  crime.  Since  his  death,  she  had  as¬ 
certained  that  it  finally  led  him  to  a  convent,  where  his 
severe  and  self-inflicted  penance  had  even  acquired  him 
the  reputation  of  unusual  sanctity,  and  had  been  the 
cause  of  his  enjoying  greater  freedom  than  is  commonly 
allowed  to  monks. 

“  Need  I  tell  yon  more  ?  ”  asked  Miriam,  after  proceed¬ 
ing  thus  far.  “  It  is  still  a  dim  and  dreary  mystery,  a 
gloomy  twilight  into  which  I  guide  you ;  but  possibly  you 
may  catch  a  glimpse  of  much  that  I  myself  can  explain 
only  by  conjecture.  At  all  events,  you  can  comprehend 
what  my  situation  must  have  been,  after  that  fatal  inter- 


THE  PEASANT  AND  CONTADINA.  223 


view  iu  the  catacomb.  My  persecutor  had  gone  thither 
for  penance,  but  followed  me  forth  with  fresh  impulses  to 
crime.  He  had  me  in  his  power.  Mad  as  he  was,  and 
wicked  as  he  was,  with  one  word  he  could  have  blasted 
me  in  the  behef  of  all  the  world.  In  your  belief  too, 
and  Hilda’s  !  Even  Donatello  would  have  shrunk  from 
me  with  horror  !  ” 

“Never,”  said  Donatello,  “my  instinct  would  have 
known  you  innocent.” 

“  Hilda  and  Donatello  and  myself,  —  we  three  would 
have  acquitted  you,”  said  Kenyon,  “  let  the  world  say 
what  it  might.  Ah,  Miriam,  you  should  have  told  us  this 
sad  story  sooner  !  ” 

“  I  thought  often  of  revealing  it  to  you,”  answered 
Miriam  ;  “  on  one  occasion,  especially,  — it  was  after  you 
had  shown  me  your  Cleopatra ;  it  seemed  to  leap  out  of 
my  heart,  and  got  as' far  as  my  very  lips.  But  finding 
you  cold  to  accept  my  confidence,  I  thrust  it  back  again. 
Had  I  obeyed  my  first  impulse,  all  would  have  turned  out 
differently.” 

“  And  Hilda !  ”  resumed  the  sculptor.  “  What  can 
have  been  her  conneetioii  with  these  dark  ineidents  ?  ” 

“  She  will,  doubtless,  tell  you  with  her  own  lips,”  re¬ 
plied  Miriam.  “  Through  sources  of  information  which  I 
possess  in  Rome,  I  can  assure  you  of  her  safety.  In  two 
days  more  —  by  the  help  of  the  speeial  Providenee  that, 
as  I  love  to  tell  you,  watehes  over  Hilda  —  she  shall  re¬ 
join  you.” 

“  Still  two  days  more  !  ”  murmured  the  seulptor. 

“  Ah,  you  are  cruel  now !  More  cruel  than  you 
know !  ”  exelaimed  Miriam,  with  another  gleam  of  that 
fantastic,  fitful  gayety,  which  had  more  than  once  marked 
her  manner,  during  this  interview.  “  Spare  your  poor 
friends  !  ” 


224 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


I  know  not  what  you  mean,  Miriam,”  said  Kenyon. 

“  No  matter,”  she  replied ;  “  you  will  understand 
hereafter.  But  could  you  think  it  ?  Here  is  Donatello 
haunted  with  strange  remorse,  and  an  unmitigable  resolve 
to  obtain  what  he  deems  justice  upon  himself.  He  fan¬ 
cies,  with  a  kind  of  direct  simplicity,  which  I  have  vainly 
tried  to  combat,  that,  when  a  wrong  has  been  done,  the 
doer  is  bound  to  submit  himself  to  whatsoever  tribunal 
takes  cognizance  of  such  things,  and  abide  its  judgment. 
I  have  assured  him  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  earthly 
justice,  and  especially  none  here,  under  -the  head  of 
Christendom.” 

“  We  will  not  argue  the  point  again,”  said  Donatello, 
smiling.  “  I  have  no  head  for  argument,  but  only  a  sense, 
an  impulse^  an  instinct,  I  believe,  which  sometimes  leads 
me  right.  But  why  do  we  talk  now  of  what  may  make 
us  sorrowful  ?  There  are  still  two  days  more.  Let  us 
be  happy  1  ” 

It  appeared  to  Kenyon  that  since  he  last  saw  Dona¬ 
tello,  some  of  the  sweet  and  delightful  characteristics  of 
the  antique  Faun  had  returned  to  him.  There  were  slight, 
careless  graces,  pleasant  and  simple  peculiarities,  that  had 
been  obliterated  by  the  heavy  grief  through  wdiich  he 
■was  passing,  at  Monte  Beni,  and  out  of  which  he  had 
liardly  emerged,  when  the  sculptor  parted  with  Miriam 
and  him  beneath  the  bronze  pontiff’s  outstretched  hand. 
These  happy  blossoms  had  now  reappeared.  A  playful¬ 
ness  came  out  of  his  heart  and  glimmered  like  firelight 
in  his  actions,  alternating,  or  even  closely  intermingled, 
with  profound  sympathy  and  serious  thought. 

“  Is  he  not  beautiful  ?  ”  said  Miriam,  watching  the 
sculptor’s  eye  as  it  dwelt  admiringly  on  Donatello.  “  So 
changed,  yet  still,  in  a  deeper  sense,  so  much  the  same ! 
He  has  travelled  in  a  circle,  as  all  things  heavenly  and 


THE  PEASANT  AND  CONTADINA.  225 

earthly  do,  and  now  comes  back  to  his  original  self,  with 
an  inestimable  treasure  of  improvement  won  from  an 
experience  of  pain.  How  wonderful  is  this  !  I  tremble 
at  my  own  thoughts,  yet  must  needs  probe  them  to  their 
deptlis.  Was  the  crime  —  in  which  he  and  I  were  wmd- 
ded  —  was  it  a  blessing,  in  that  strange  disguise  ?  Was 
it  a  means  of  education,  bringing  a  simple  and  imperfect 
nature  to  a  point  of  feeling  and  intelligence  which  it 
could  have  reached  under  no  other  discipline  ?  ” 

“  You  stir  up  deep  and  perilous  matter,  TVIiriam,” 
replied  Kenyon,  “  I  dare  not  follow  you  into  the  un¬ 
fathomable  abysses  whither  you  are  tending.” 

“  Yet  there  is  a  pleasure  in  them !  I  delight  to  brood 
on  the  verge  of  this  great  mystery,”  returned  she.  “  The 
story  of  the  fall  of  man !  Is  it  not  repeated  in  our  ro¬ 
mance  of  Monte  Beiii  ?  And  may  we  follow  the  analogy 
yet  further?  Was  that  very  sin,  —  into  which  Adam 
precipitated  himself  and  all  his  race,  — was  it  the  destined 
means  by  which,  over  a  long  pathway  of  toil  and  sorrow, 
we  are  to  attain  a  higher,  brighter,  and  profounder  hap¬ 
piness,  than  our  lost  birthright  gave  ?  Will  not  this  idea 
account  for  the  permitted  existence  of  sin,  as  no  other 
theory  can  ?  ” 

“  It  is  too  dangerous,  Miriam  !  I  cannot  follow  you  !  ” 
repeated  the  sculptor.  “Mortal  man  has  no  right  to 
tread  on  the  ground  where  you  now  set  your  feet.” 

“Ask  Hilda  what  she  thinks  of  it,”  said  Miriam,  with 
a  thoughtful  smile.  “  At  least,  she  might  conclude  that 
sin  —  wdiich  man  chose  instead  of  good  —  has  been  so 
beneficently  handled  by  omniscience  and  omnipotence, 
that,  whereas  our  dark  enemy  sought  to  destroy  us  by  it, 
it  has  really  become  an  instrument  most  effective  in  the 
education  of  intellect  and  soul.” 

Miriam  paused  a  little  longer  among  these  meditations, 
10*  '  o 


226 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


■which  the  sculptor  rightly  felt  to  he  so  perilous  ;  she  then 
pressed  his  hand,  in  token  of  farewell. 

“  The  day  after  to-morrow,”  said  she,  “  an  hour  before 
sunset,  go  to  the  Corso,  and  stand  in  front  of  the  fifth 
house  on  your  left,  beyond  the  Antonine  column.  You 
will  learn  tidings  of  a  friend.” 

Kenyon  would  have  besought  her  for  more  definite 
intelligence,  but  she  shook  her  head,  put  her  finger  on 
her  lips,  and  turned  away  with  an  illusive  smile.  The 
fancy  impressed  him,  that  she,  too,  like  Donatello,  had 
reached  a  wayside  paradise,  in  their  mysterious  life -jour¬ 
ney,  where  they  both  threw  down  the  burden  of  the 
before  and  after,  and,  except  for  this  interview  with 
himself,  were  happy  in  the  flitting  moment.  To-day, 
Donatello  was  the  sylvan  Kaun;  to-day,  Miriam  was  his 
fit  companion,  a  Nymph  of  grove  or  fountain;  to-mor¬ 
row,  —  a  remorseful  man  and  woman,  linked  by  a  mar¬ 
riage-bond  of  crime,  —  they  would  set  forth  towards  an 
inevitable  goal. 


»  .  f" 


f 


f 


/ 


I 


t— 1 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  SCENE  IN  THE  CORSO. 

the  appointed  afternoon,  Kenyon  failed  not  to 
lake  his  appearance  in  tlie  Corso,  and  at  an 
our  much  earlier  than  Miriam  had  named. 

It  was  carnival  time.  The  merriment  of  tliis  famous 
festival  was  in  full  progress  ;  and  the  stately  avenue  of 
the  Corso  was  peopled  witli  hundreds  of  fantastic  shapes, 
some  of  which  probably  represented  the  mirth  of  ancient 
times,  surviving  through  all  manner  of  calamity,  ever 
since  the  days  of  the  Roman  Empire.  Eor  a  few  after¬ 
noons  of  early  spring,  this  mouldy  gayety  strays  into  the 
sunshine ;  all  the  remainder  of  the  year,  it  seems  to  be 
shut  up  in  the  catacombs  or  some  other  sepulchral  store¬ 
house  of  the  past. 

Resides  these  hereditary  forms,  at  which  a  hundred 
generations  have  laughed,  there  were  others  of  modern 
date,  the  humorous  effluence  of  the  day  that  was  now 
passing.  It  is  a  day,  however,  and  an  age,  that  appears 
to  be  remarkably  barren,  when  compared  with  the  pro¬ 
lific  originality  of  former  times,  in  productions  of  a  scenic 
and  ceremonial  character,  whether  grave  or  gay.  To  own 
the  truth,  the  carnival  is  alive,  this  present  year,  only 
because  it  has  existed  through  centuries  gone  by.  It  is 


228 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


traditionary,  not  actual.  If  decrepit  and  melanclioly 
Rome  smiles,  and  laughs  broadly,  indeed,  at  carnival 
time,  it  is  not  in  the  old  simplicity  of  real  mirth,  but 
with  a  half-conscious  effort,  like  our  self-deceptive  pre- 
tenee  of  jollity  at  a  threadbare  joke.  Whatever  it  may 
once  have  been,  it  is  now  but  a  narrow  stream  of  merri¬ 
ment,  noisy  of  set  purpose,  running  along  the  middle  of 
the  Corso,  through  the  solemn  heart  of  the  decayed  city, 
without  extending  its  shallow  influence  on  either  side. 
Nor,  even  within  its  own  limits,  does  it  affect  the  mass 
of  spectators,  but  only  a  comparatively  few,  in  street 
and  balcony,  who  oarry^pn  the  warfare  of  nosegays  and 
counterfeit  sugar-plums.  The  populace  look  on  witli 
staid  composure ;  the  jiiobility  and  priesthood  take  little 
or  no  part  in  the  matter;  and,  but  for  the  hordes  of 
Anglo-Saxons  who  annually  take  up  the  flagging  mirth, 
the  carnival  might  long  ago  have  been  swept  away, 
with  the  snow-drifts  of  confetti  that  whiten  all  the  pave¬ 
ment. 

No  doubt,  however,  the  worn-out  festival  is  still  new 
to  the  youthful  and  light-hearted,  who  make  the  worn- 
out  world  itself  as  fresh  as  Adam  found  it  on  liis  first 
forenoon  in  Paradise.  It  may  be  only  age  and  care  that 
chill  the  life  out  of  its  grotesque  and  airy  riot,  with  the 
impertinence  of  their  cold  criticism. 

Kenyon,  though  young,  had  care  enough  within  his 
breast  to  render  the  carnival  the  emptiest  of  mockeries. 
Contrasting  the  stern  anxiety  of  his  present  mood  with 
the  frolic  spirit  of  the  preceding  year,  he  fancied  that  so 
much  trouble  had,  at  all  events,  brought  wisdom  in  its 
train.  But  there  is  a  wisdom  that  looks  grave,  and  sneers 
at  merriment ;  and  again  a  deeper  wisdom,  tliat  stoops  to 
be  gay  as  often' as  occasion  serves,  and  ofteiiest  avails 
itself  of  shallow  and  trifling  grounds  of  mirth ;  because. 


A  SCENE  IN  THE  CORSO. 


229 


if  we  wait  for  more  substantial  ones,  we  seldom  can  be 
gay  at  all.  Therefore,  had  it  been  possible,  Kenyon 
would  have  done  well  to  mask  himself  in  some  wild, 
hairy  visage,  and  plunge  into  the  throng  of  other  mask¬ 
ers,  as  at  the  carnival  before.  Then,  Donatello  had 
danced  along  the  Corso  in  all  the  equipment  of  a  Faun, 
doing  the  part  with  wonderful  felicity  of  execution,  and 
revealing  furry  ears  which  looked  absolutely  real ;  and 
Miriam  had  been  alternately,  a  lady  of  the  antique  regime, 
in  powder  and  brocade,  and  the  prettiest  peasant-girl  of 
the  Campagna,  in  the  gayest  of  costumes  ;  while  Hilda, 
sitting  demurely  in  a  balcony,  had  hit  the  sculptor  with 
a  single  rosebud,  —  so  sweet  and  fresh  a  bud  that  he 
knew  at  onee  whose  hand  liad  flung  it. 

These  were  all  gone ;  all  those  dear  friends  whose 
sympathetic  mirth  had  made  him  gay.  Kenyon  felt  as  if 
an  interval  of  many  years  had  passed  since  the  last  car¬ 
nival.  He  had  grown  old,  the  nimble  jollity  was  tame, 
and  the  maskers  dull  and  heavy ;  the  Corso  was  but  a 
narrow  and  shabby  street  of  decaying  palaces  ;  and  even 
the  long,  blue  streamer  of  Italian  sky,  above  it,  not  half 
so  brightly  blue  as  formerly. 

Yet,  if  he  could  have  beheld  the  scene  with  his  clear, 
natural  eyesight,  he  might  still  have  found  both  merriment 
and  splendor  in  it.  Everywhere,  and  all  day  long,  there 
had  been  tokens  of  the  festival,  in  the  baskets  brimming 
over  with  bouquets,  for  sale  at  the  street-corners,  or  borne 
about  on  people’s  heads;  while  bushels  upon  bushels  of 
variously  colored  confetti  were  displayed,  looking  just 
like  veritable  sugar-plums ;  so  that  a  stranger  would 
have  imagined  that  the  whole  commerce  and  business  of 
stern  old  Rome  lay  in  flowers  and  sweets.  And,  now,  in 
the  sunny  afternoon,  there  could  hardly  be  a  spectacle 
more  picturesque  than  the  vista  of  that  noble  street. 


230 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


stretching  into  the  interminable  distance  between  two 
rows  of  lofty  edifices,  from  every  window  of  which,  and 
many  a  balcony,  flaunted  gay  and  gorgeous  carpets,  bright 
silks,  scarlet  cloths  with  rich  golden  fringes,  and  Gobelin 
tapestry,  still  lustrous  with  varied  hues,  though  the  prod¬ 
uct  of  antique  looms.  Each  separate  palace  had  put  on 
a  gala-dress,  and  looked  festive  for  the  occasion,  whatever 
sad  or  guilty  secret  it  might  hide  within.  Every  window, 
moreover,  was  alive  with  the  faces  of  women,  rosy  girls, 
and  children,  all  kindled  into  brisk  and  mirthful  expres¬ 
sion  by  the  incidents  in  the  street  below.  In  the  balconies 
that  projected  along  the  palace  fronts,  stood  groups  of 
ladies,  some  beautiful,  all  richly  dressed,  scattering  forth 
their  laughter,  shrill,  yet  sweet,  and  the  musical  babble 
of  their  voices,  to  thicken  into  an  airy  tumult  over  the 
heads  of  common  mortals. 

All  these  innumerable  eyes  looked  down  into  the  street, 
the  whole  capacity  of  which  was  thronged  with  festal 
figures,  in  such  fantastic  variety  that  it  had  taken  centu¬ 
ries  to  contrive  them ;  and  through  the  midst  of  the  mad, 
merry  stream  of  human  life,  rolled  slowly  onward  a  never- 
ending  procession  of  all  the  vehicles  in  Rome,  from  the 
ducal  carriage,  with  the  powdered  coachman  high  in  front, 
and  the  three  golden  lackeys  clinging  in  the  rear,  down 
to  the  rustic  cart  drawn  by  its  single  donkey.  Among 
this  various  crowd,  at  windows  and  in  balconies,  in  cart, 
cab,  barouche,  or  gorgeous  equipage,  or  bustling  to  and 
fro  afoot,  there  was  a  .sympathy  of  nonsense ;  a  true  and 
genial  brotherhood  and  sisterhood,  based  on  the  honest 
purpose  —  and  a  wise  one,  too  —  of  being  foolish,  all  to¬ 
gether.  The  sport  of  mankind,  like  its  deepest  earnest, 
is  a  battle  ;  so  these  festive  people  fought  one  another  with 
an  ammunition  of  sugar-plums  and  flowers. 

Not  that  they  were  veritable  sugar-plums,  however. 


A  SCENE  IN  THE  CORSO. 


231 


but  sometliing  that  resembled  them  only  as  the  apples  of 
Sodom  look  like  better  fruit.  They  were  concoeted 
mostly  of  lime,  with  a  grain  of  oat  or  some  other  worth¬ 
less  kernel  in  the  midst.  Besides  the  hail-storm  of  con¬ 
fetti,  the  combatants  threw  handfuls  of  flour  or  lime  into 
the  air,  where  it  hung  like  smoke  over  a  battle-field,  or, 
descending,  whitened  a  black  coat  or  priestly  robe,  and 
made  the  curly  locks  of  youth  irreverently  hoary.  ^ 

At  the  same  time  with  this  acrid  contest  of  quicklime, 
which  caused  much  effusion  of  tears  from  suffering  eyes, 
a  gentler  warfare  of  flowers  was  carried  on,  principally 
between  knights- and  ladies.  Originally,  no  doubt,  when 
this  pretty  custom  was  first  instituted,  it  may  have  had  a 
sincere  and  modest  import.  Each  youth  and  damsel, 
gathering  bouquets  of  field-flowers,  or  the  sweetest  and 
fairest  that  grew  in  their  own  gardens,  all  fresh  and  virr 
gin  blossoms,  flung  them,  with  true  aim,  at  the  one,  or 
few,  whom  they  regarded  with  a  sentiment  of  shy  par^ 
tiality  at  least,  if  not  with  love.  Often,  the  lover  in  the 
Corso  may  thus  have  received  from  his  bright  mistress, 
in  her  father’s  princely  balcony,  the  first  sweet  intimation 
that  his  passionate  glances  had  not  struck  against  a  heart 
of  marble.  What  more  appropriate  mode  of  suggesting 
her  tender  secret  could  a  maiden  find,  than  by  the  soft 
hit  of  a  rosebud  against  a  young  man’s  cheek. 

This  was  the  pastime  and  the  earnest  of  a  more  inno¬ 
cent  and  homelier  age.  Nowadays,  the  nosegays  are 
gathered  and  tied  up  by  sordid  hands,  chiefly  of  the  most 
ordinary  flowers,  and  are  sold  along  the  Corso,  at  mean 
price,  yet  more  than  such  venal  things  are  worth.  Buy¬ 
ing  a  basketful,  you  find  them  miserably  wilted,  as  if  they 
had  flown  hither  and  thither  through  two  or  three  carni¬ 
val  days  already;  muddy,  too,  having  been  fished  up  from 
the  pavement,  where  a  hundred  feet  have  trampled  on 


232 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


them.  You  may  see  throngs  of  men  and  boys  who  thrust 
themselves  beneath  the  horses’  hoofs  to  gather  up  bou¬ 
quets  that  were  aimed  amiss  from  balcony  and  carriage ; 
these  they  sell  again,  and  yet  once  more,  and  ten  times 
over,  defiled  as  they  all  are  with  the  wicked  filth  of 
Rome. 

Such  are  the  flowery  favors  —  the  fragrant  bunches 
of  sentiment  —  that  fly  between  cavalier  and  dame,  and 
back  again,  from  one  end  of  the  Corso  to  the  other. 
Perhaps  they  may  symbolize,  more  aptly  than  was 
intended,  the  poor,  battered,  wilted  hearts  of  those  who 
fling  them ;  hearts  which  —  crumpled  -and  crushed  by 
former  possessors,  and  stained  with  various  mishap — • 
have  been  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  along  the  muddy 
street-way  of  hfe,  instead  of  being  treasured  in  one  faith¬ 
ful  bosom. 

These  venal  and  polluted  flowers,  therefore,  and  those 
deceptive  bonbons,  are  types  of  the  small  reality  that  still 
subsists  in  the  observance  of  the  carnival.  Yet  the  gov¬ 
ernment  seemed  to  imagine  that  there  might  be  excite¬ 
ment  enough, — wild  mirth,  perchance,  folio wiug  its  antics 
beyond  law,  and  frisking  from  frolic  into  earnest,  —  to 
render  it  expedient  to  guard  the  Corso  with  an  imposing 
show  of  military  power.  Besides  the  ordinary  force  of 
gendarmes,  a  strong  patrol  of  Papal  dragoons,  in  steel 
helmets  and  white  cloaks,  were  stationed  at  all  the  street- 
corners.  Detachments  of  Prench  infantry  stood  by  their 
stacked  muskets  in  the  Piazza  del  Pppolo,  at  one  ex¬ 
tremity  of  the  course,  and  before  the  palace  of  the 
Austrian  embassy,  at  the  other,  and  by  the  column  of 
Antoninus,  midway  between.  Had  that  chained  tiger-cat, 
the  Roman  populace,  shown  only  so  much  as  the  tips  of 
his  claws,  the  sabres  would  have  been  flashing  and  the 
bullets  whistling,  in  right  earnest,  among  the  combatants 


A  SCENE  IN  THE  COESO.  233 

who  now  pelted  one  another  with  moek  sugar-plums  and 
wilted  flowers. 

But,  to  do  the  Roman  people  justice,  they  were  re¬ 
strained  by  a  better  safeguard  than  the  sabre  or  the  bayo¬ 
net:  it  was  their  own  gentle  courtesy,  wliich  imparted 
a  sort  of  sacredness  to  the  hereditary  festival.  At  first 
sight  of  a  spectacle  so  fantastic  and  extravagant,  a  cool 
observer  might  have  imagined  the  whole  town  gone  mad ; 
but,  ill  the  end,  he  would  see  that  all  this  apparently  un¬ 
bounded  license  is  kept  strictly  within  a  limit  of  its  own  ; 
he  would  admire  a  people  who  can  so  freely  let  loose 
their  mirthful  propensities,  while  muzzling  those  fiercer 
ones  that  tend  to  mischief.  Everybody  seemed  lawless ; 
nobody  was  rude.  If  any  reveller  overstepped  the  mark, 
it  was  sure  to  be  no  Homan,  but  an -Englishman  or  an 
American ;  and  even  the  rougher  play  of  this  Gothic  race 
was  still  softened  by  the  insensible  influence  of  amoral 
atmosphere  more  delicate,  in  some  respects,  than  we 
breathe  at  home.  Not  that,  after  all,  we  like  the  fine 
Italian  spirit  better  than  our  own ;  popular  rudeness  is 
sometimes  the  symptom  of  rude  moral  health.  But, 
w'here  a  carnival  is  in  question,  it  would  probably  pass 
off  more  decorously,  as  well  as  more  airily  and  delight¬ 
fully,  in  Rome,  than  in  any  Anglo-Saxon  city. 

When  Kenyon  emerged  from  a  side-lane  into  tlie 
Corso,  the  mirth  was  at  its  height.  Out  of  the  seclusion 
of  his  own  feelings,  he  looked  forth  at  the  tapestried  and 
damask-curtained  palaces,  the  slow-moving,  double  line  of 
carriages,  and  the  motley  maskers  that  swarmed  on  foot, 
as  if  he  were  gazing  through  the  iron  lattice  of  a  prison- 
window.  So  remote  from  the  scene  were  his  sympathies, 
that  it  affected  him  like  a  thin  dream,  through  the  dim, 
extravagant  material  of  which  he  could  discern  more 
substantial  objects,  while  too  much  under  its  control  to 


234  EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 

start  forth  broad  awake.  Just  at  that  moment,  too,  there 
came  another  spectacle,  making  its  way  right  through 
the  masquerading  throng. 

It  was,  first  and  foremost,  a  full  band  of  martial  music, 
reverberating,  in  that  narrow  and  confined,  though  stately 
avenue,  between  the  walls  of  the  lofty  palaces,  and  roar¬ 
ing  upward  to  the  sky,  with  melody  so  powerful  that  it 
almost  grew  to  discord.  Next  came  a  body  of  cavalry 
and  mounted  gendarmes,  with  great  display  of  military 
pomp.  They  were  escorting  a  long  train  of  equipages, 
each  and  all  of  which  shone  as  gorgeously  as  Cinderella’s 
coach,  with  paint  and  gilding.  Like  that,  too,  they  were 
provided  with  coachmen,  of  mighty  breadth,  and  enor¬ 
mously  tall  footmen,  in  immense,  powdered  wigs,  and  all 
the  splendor  of  gold-laced,  three-cornered  hats,  and  em¬ 
broidered  silk  coats  and  breeches.  By  the  old-fashioned 
magnificence  of  this  procession,  it  might  worthily  have 
included  his  Holiness  in  person,  with  a  suite  of  attendant 
Cardinals,  if  those  sacred  dignitaries  would  kindly  have 
lent  their  aid  to  heighten  the  frolic  of  the  carnival.  But, 
for  all  its  show  of  a  martial  escort,  and  its  antique  splen¬ 
dor  of  costume,  it  was  but  a  train  of  the  municipal  au¬ 
thorities  of  Home,  —  illusive  shadows,  every  one,  and 
among  them  a  phantom,  styled  the  Homan  Senator, — • 
proceeding  to  the  Capitol. 

The  riotous  interchange  of  nosegays  and  confetti  was 
partially  suspended,  while  the  procession  passed.  One 
well-directed  shot,  however,  —  it  was  a  double  handful  of 
powdered  lime,  flung  by  an  impious  New-Englander, — 
hit  the  coachman  of  the  Roman  Senator  full  in  the  face, 
and  hurt  his  dignity  amazingly.  It  appeared  to  be  his 
opinion,  that  the  Republic  was  again  crumbling  into 
ruin,  and  that  the  dust  of  it  now  filled  his  nostrils; 
though,  m  fact,  it  would  hardly  be  distinguished  from 


A  SCENE  IN  THE  CORSO. 


235 


the  official  powder  with  which  he  was  already  plenti¬ 
fully  bestrewn. 

While  the  sculptor,  with  his  dreamy  eyes,  was  taking 
idle  note  of  this  trifling  circumstance,  two  figures  passed 
before  him,  hand  in  hand.  The  countenance  of  each  was 
covered  with  an  impenetrable  black  mask ;  but  one 
seemed  a  peasant  of  the  Campagna ;  the  other,  a  con- 
tadiiia  in  her  holiday  costume. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 

A  FROLIC  OF  THE  CARNIVAL. 


HE  crowd  and  confusion,  just  at  tliat  moment, 
hindered  the  sculptor  from  pursuing  these  fig¬ 
ures,  —  the  peasant  and  contadina,  —  who,  in¬ 
deed,  were  but  two  of  a  numerous  tribe  that  thronged 
the  Corso,  in  similar  costume.  As  soon  as  he  could 
squeeze  a  passage,  Kenyon  tried  to  follow  in  their  foot¬ 
steps,  but  quickly  lost  sight  of  them,  and  was  thrown 
off*  the  track  by  stopping  to  examine  various  groups  of 
masqueraders,  in  which  he  fancied  the  objects  of  his 
search  to  be  included.  He  found  many  a  sallow  peas¬ 
ant  or  herdsman  of  the  Campagna,  in  such  a  dress  as 
Donatello  wore  ;  many  a  contadina,  too,  brown,  broad, 
and  sturdy,  in  her  finery  of  scarlet,  and  decked  out  with 
gold  or  coral  beads,  a  pair  of  heavy  ear-rings,  a  curiously 
wrought  cameo  or  mosaic  brooch,  and  a  silver  comb  or 
long  stiletto  among  her  glossy  hair.  But  those  shapes 
of  grace  and  beauty,  which  he  sought,  had  vanished. 

As  soon  as  the  procession  of  the  Senator  had  passed, 
the  merry-makers  resumed  their  antics  with  fresh  spirit, 
and  the  artillery  of  bouquets  and  sugar-plums,  suspended 
for  a  moment,  began  anew.  The  sculptor  himself,  being 
probably  the  most  anxious  and  unquiet  spectator  there. 


A  FTIOLIC  OF  THE  CARNIVAL. 


237 


■was  especially  a  mark  for  missiles  from  all  quarters,  and 
for  the  practical  jokes  which  the  license  of  the  carni¬ 
val  permits.  In  fact,  his  sad  and  contracted  brow  so  ill 
accorded  with  the  scene,  that  the  revellers  might  be 
pardoned  for  thus  using  him  as  the  butt  of  their  idle 
mirth,  since  he  evidently  could  not  otherwise  contribute 
to  it. 

Fantastic  figures,  with  bulbous  heads,  the  circumfer¬ 
ence  of  a  bushel,  grinned  enormously  in  his  face.  Har¬ 
lequins  struck  him  with  their  wooden  swords,  and  ap¬ 
peared  to  expect  his  immediate  transformation  into  some 
jollier  shape.  A  little,  long-tailed,  horned  fiend  sidled 
up  to  him,  and  suddenly  blew  at  him  through  a  tube, 
enveloping  our  poor  friend  in  a  whole  harvest  of  winged 
seeds.  A  biped,  with  an  ass’s  snout,  brayed  close  to  his 
ear,  ending  his  discordant  uproar  with  a  peal  of  human 
laughter.  Five  strapping  damsels  —  so,  at  least,  their 
petticoats  bespoke  them,  in  spite  of  an  awful  freedom  in 
the  fioiirish  of  their  legs  —  joined  hands,  and  danced 
around  him,  inviting  him  by  their  gestures  to  perform  a 
hornpipe  in  the  midst.  Released  from  these  gay  perse¬ 
cutors,  a  clown  in  motley  rapped  him  on  the  back  with  a 
blown  bladder,  in  which  a  handful  of  dried  peas  rattled 
horribly. 

Unquestionably,  a  care-stricken  mortal  has  no  business 
abroad,  when  the  rest  of  mankind  are  at  high  carnival ; 
they  must  either  pelt  him  and  absolutely  martyr  him  with 
jests,  and  finally  bury  him  beneath  the  aggregate  heap ; 
or  else  the  potency  of  his  darker  mood,  because  the  tissue 
of  human  life  takes  a  sad  dye  more  readily  than  a  gay 
one,  will  quell  their  holiday  humors,  like  the  aspect  of  a 
death’s-head  at  a  banquet.  Only  that  we  know  Ken¬ 
yon’s  errand,  we  could  hardly  forgive  him  for  venturing 
into  the  Corso  with  that  troubled  face. 


238 


HOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Even  yet,  liis  merry  martyrdom  was  not  lialf  over. 
There  came  along  a  gigantic  female  figure,  seven  feet 
high,  at  least,  and  taking  up  a  third  of  the  street’s  breadth 
with  the  preposterously  swelling  sphere  of  her  crinoline 
skirts.  Singling  out  the  sculptor,  she  began  to  make 
a  ponderous  assault  upon  his  heart,  throwing  amorous 
glances  at  him  out  of  her  great  goggle-eyes,  olferiug  him 
a  vast  bouquet  of  sunflowers  and  nettles,  and  soliciting 
his  pity  by  all  sorts  of  pathetic  and  passionate  dumb- 
show.  Her  suit  meeting  no  favor,  the  rejected  Titaness 
made  a  gesture  of  despair  and  rage ;  then  suddenly  draw¬ 
ing  a  huge  pistol,  she  took  aim  right  at  the  obdurate 
sculptor’s  breast,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  shot  took 
effect,  for  the  abominable  plaything  went  off  by  a  spring, 
like  a  boy’s  popgun,  covering  Kenyon  with  a  cloud  of 
lime-dust,  under  shelter  of  which  the  revengeful  damsel 
strode  away. 

Hereupon,  a  whole  host  of  absurd  figures  surrounded 
him,  pretending  to  sympathize  in  his  mishap.  Clowns  and 
party-colored  harlequins ;  orang-outangs  ;  bear-headed, 
bull-headed,  and  dog-headed  individuals ;  faces  that  would 
have  been  human,  but  for  their  enormous  noses;  one 
terrific  creature,  with  a  visage  right  in  the  centre  of  his 
breast;  and  all  other  imaginable  kinds  of  monstrosity 
and  exaggeration.  These  apparitions  appeared  to  be  in¬ 
vestigating  the  case,  after  the  fashion  of  a  coroner’s  jury, 
poking  tlieir  pasteboard  countenances  close  to  the  sculp¬ 
tor’s  with  an  unchangeable  grin,  that  gave  still  more 
ludicrous  eflFect  to  the  comic  alarm  and  sorrow  of  their 
gestures.  Just  then,  a  figure  came  by,  in  a  gray  wig 
and  rusty  gown,  with  an  inkhorn  at  his  buttonhole,  and 
a  pen  behind  his  ear ;  lie  announced  himself  as  a  notary, 
and  offered  to  make  the  last  will  and  testament  of  tlie 
assassinated  man.  This  solemn  duty,  however,  was  in- 


A  FllOLIC  OF  THE  CARNIVAL. 


239 


terrupted  by  a  surgeon,  who  brandished  a  laneet,  three 
feet  long,  and  proposed  to  him  to  let  him  take  blood. 

The  affair  was  so  like  a  feverish  dream,  that  Kenyon 
resigned  himself  to  let  it  take  its  course,  fortunately, 
the  humors  of  the  carnival  pass  from  one  absurdity  to 
another,  without  lingering  long  enough  on  any,  to  wear 
out  even  the  slightest  of  them.  The  passiveness  of  his 
demeanor  afforded  too  little  scope  for  such  broad  merri¬ 
ment  as  the  masqueraders  sought.  In  a  few  moments 
they  vanished  from  him,  as  dreams  and  spectres  do, 
leaving  him  at  liberty  to  pursue  his  quest,  with  no  im¬ 
pediment  except  the  crowd  that  blocked  up  the  foot- 
way. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  the  peasant  and  the  conta- 
dina  met  him.  They  were  still  hand  in  hand,  and  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  straying  through  the  grotesque  and  animat¬ 
ed  scene,  taking  as  little  part  in  it  as  himself.  It  might 
be  because  he  recognized  them,  and  knew  their  solemn 
secret,  that  the  sculptor  fancied  a  melancholy  emotion 
to  be  expressed  by  the  very  movement  and  attitudes  of 
these  two  figures ;  and  even  the  grasp  of  their  hands, 
uniting  them  so  closely,  seemed  to  set  them  in  a  sad  re¬ 
moteness  from  the  world  at  which  they  gazed. 

“  I  rejoice  to  meet  you,”  said  Kenyon. 

But  they  looked  at  him  through  the  eye-holes  of  their 
black  masks,  without  answering  a  word. 

“  Pray  give  me  a  little  light  on  the  matter  which  I 
have  so  much  at  heart,”  said  he ;  “  if  you  know  anything 
of  Hilda,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  speak  !  ” 

Still,  they  were  silent ;  and  the  sculptor  began  to  im¬ 
agine  that  he  must  have  mistaken  the  identity  of  these 
figures,  there  being  such  a  multitude  in  similar  costume. 
Yet  there  was  no  other  Donatello,  no  other  Miriam. 
He  felt,  too,  that  spiritual  certainty  which  impresses  us 


240 


EOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


with  the  presence  of  our  friends,  apart  from  any  testi¬ 
mony  of  the  senses. 

“  You  are  unkind,”  resumed  he,  —  knowing  the  anx¬ 
iety  which  oppresses  me, — not  to  relieve  it,  if  in  your 
power.” 

The  reproach  evidently  had  its  effect ;  for  the  conta- 
dina  now  spoke,  and  it  was  Miriam’s  voice. 

“We  gave  you  all  the  light  we  could,”  said  she. 
“  You  are  yourself  unkind,  though  you  little  think  how 
much  so,  to  come  between  us  at  this  hour.  There  may 
be  a  sacred  hour,  even  in  carnival  time.” 

In  another  state  of  mind,  Kenyon  could  have  been 
amused  by  the  impulsiveness  of  this  response,  and  a  sort 
of  vivacity  that  he  had  often  noted  in  Miriam’s  conversa¬ 
tion.  But  he  was  conscious  of  a  profound  sadness  in  her 
tone,  overpowering  its  momentary  irritation,  and  assuring 
him  that  a  pale,  tear-stained  face  was  hidden  behind  her 
mask. 

“  Forgive  me  !  ”  said  he. 

Donatello  here  extended  his  hand,  —  not  that  which 
was  clasping  Miriam’s,  —  and  she,  too,  put  her  free  one 
into  the  sculptor’s  left ;  so  that  they  were  a  linked  circle 
of  three,  with  many  reminiscences  and  forebodings  flash¬ 
ing  through  their  hearts.  Kenyon  knew  intuitively  that 
these  once  familiar  friends  were  parting  with  him,  now. 

“  Farewell !  ”  they  all  three  said,  in  the  same  breath. 

No  sooner  was  the  word  spoken,  than  they  loosed  their 
hands  ;  and  the  uproar  of  the  carnival  swept  like  a  tem¬ 
pestuous  sea  over  the  spot,  which  they  had  included 
within  their  small  circle  of  isolated  feeling. 

By  this  interview,  the  sculptor  had  learned  nothing  in 
reference  to  Hilda;  but  he  understood  that  he  was  to 
adhere  to  the  instructions  already  received,  and  await  a 
solution  of  the  mystery  in  some  mode  that  he  could  not 


A  FROLIC  OF  THE  CARNIVAL. 


241 


yet  anticipate.  Passing  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and 
looking  about  him,  —  for  the  event  just  described  had 
made  the  scene  even  more  dreamlike  than  before,  —  lie 
now  found  himself  approaching  that  broad  piazza  border¬ 
ing  on  the  Corso,  which  has  for  its  central  object  the 
sculptured  column  of  Antoninus.  It  was  not  far  from 
this  vicinity  that  Miriam  had  bid  him  wait.  Struggling 
onward,  as  fast  as  the  tide  of  merry-makers,  setting  strong 
against  him,  would  permit,  he  was  now  beyond  the  Palazzo 
Colonua,  and  began  to  count  the  houses.  The  fifth  was 
a  palace,  with  a  long  front  upon  the  Corso,  and  of  stately 
height,  but  somewhat  grim  with  age. 

Over  its  arched  and  pillared  entrance  there  was  a  bal¬ 
cony,  richly  hung  with  tapestry  and  damask,  and  tenanted, 
for  the  time,  by  a  gentleman  of  venerable  aspect,  and  a 
group  of  ladies.  The  white  hair  and  wdiiskers  of  the 
former,  and  the  winter-roses  in  his  cheeks,  had  an  English 
look  ;  the  ladies,  too,  showed  a  fair-haired,  Saxon  bloom, 
and  seemed  to  taste  the  mirth  of  the  carnival  with  the 
freshness  of  spectators  to  whom  the  scene  was  new.  All 
the  party,  the  old  gentleman  with  grave  earnestness,  as 
if  he  were  defending  a  rampart,  and  his  young  companions 
wuth  exuberance  of  frolic,  showered  confetti  inexhaustibly 
upon  the  passers-by. 

In  the  rear  of  the  balcony,  a  broad-brimmed,  ecclesias¬ 
tical  beaver  was  visible.  An  abbate,  probably  an  ac¬ 
quaintance  and  cicerone  of  the  English  family,  was  sitting 
there,  and  enjoying  the  scene,  though  partially  withdrawn 
from  view,  as  the  decorum  of  his  order  dictated. 

There  seemed  no  better  nor  other  course  for  Kenyon, 
than  to  keep  watch  at  this  appointed  spot,  waiting  for 
whatever  should  happen  next.  Clasping  his  arm  round  a 
lamp-post,  to  prevent  being  carried  away  by  the  turbulent 
stream  of  wayfarers,  he  scrutinized  every  face,  with  the 

VOL.  II.  11  P 


242 


E.OMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


idea  that  some  one  of  them  might  meet  his  eyes  with  a 
glance  of  intelligence.  He  looked  at  each  mask,  —  har¬ 
lequin,  ape,  bulbous-headed  monster,  or  anything  that 
was  absurdest, — not  knowing  but  that  the  messenger 
might  come,  even  in  such  fantastic  guise.  Or,  perhaps, 
one  of  those  quaint  figures,  in  the  stately  ruff,  the  cloak, 
tunic,  and  trunk-hose,  of  three  centuries  ago,  might 
bring  him  tidings  of  Hilda,  out  of  that  long-past  age: 
At  times,  his  disquietude  took  a  hopeful  aspect ;  and  he 
fancied  that  Hilda  might  come  by,  her  own  sweet  self,  in 
some  shy  disguise  which  the  instinct  of  Ids  love  would  be 
sure  to  penetrate.  Or,  she  might  be  borne  past  on  a 
triumphal  car,  like  the  one  just  now  approaching,  its  slow- 
moving  wheels  encircled  and  spoked  with  foliage,  and 
drawn  by  horses  that  were  harnessed  and  wreathed  with 
flowers.  Being,  at  best,  so  far  beyond  the  bounds  of 
reasonable  conjecture,  he  might  anticipate  the  wildest 
event,  or  find  either  his  hopes  or  fears  disappointed  in 
what  appeared  most  probable. 

The  old  Englishman  and  his  daughters,  in  the  opposite 
balcony,  must  have  seen  something  unutterably  absurd  in 
the  sculptor’s  deportment,  poring  into  this  whirlpool  of 
nonsense  so  earnestly,  in  quest  of  what  was  to  make  his 
life  dark  or  bright.  Earnest  people,  who  try  to  get  a 
reality  out  of  human  existence,  are  necessarily  absurd 
in  the  view  of  the  revellers  and  masqueraders.  At  all 
events,  after  a  good  deal  of  mirth  at  the  expense  of  his 
melancholy  visage,  the  fair  occupants  of  the  balcony 
favored  Kenyon  with  a  salvo  of  confetti,  which  came 
rattling  about  him  like  a  hail-storm.  Looking  up,  in¬ 
stinctively,  he  was  surprised  to  see  the  abbate  in  the 
background  lean  forward  and  give  a  courteous  sign  of 
recognition. 

It  was  the  same  old  priest  with  whom  he  had  seen 


A  FROLIC  OF  THE  CARNIVAL. 


243 


Hilda,  at  tlie  confessional ;  the  same  with  whom  he  had 
talked  of  her  disappearance,  on  meeting  liim  in  the  street. 

Yet,  whatever  might  be  the  reason,  Kenyon  did  not 
now  associate  this  ecclesiastical  personage  with  the  idea 
of  Hilda.  His  eyes  lighted  on  the  old  man,  just  for  an 
instant,  and  then  returned  to  the  eddying  throng  of  the 
Corso,  on  his  minute  scrutiny  of  which  depended,  for 
aught  he  knew,  the  sole  chance  of  ever  finding  any  trace 
of  her.  There  was,  about  this  moment,  a  bustle  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  the  cause  of  which  Kenyon  did 
not  see,  nor  exert  himself  to  discover.  A  small  party  of 
soldiers  or  gendarmes  appeared  to  be  concerned  in  it ; 
they  were  perhaps  arresting  some  disorderly  character, 
who,  under  the  influence  of  an  extra  flask  of  wine,  might 
have  reeled  across  the  mystic  limitation  of  carnival  pro¬ 
prieties. 

The  sculptor  heard  some  people  near  him,  talking  of 
the  incident. 

“  That  coutadiua,  in  a  black  mask,  was  a  flue  figure  of 
a  woman.” 

“  She  was  not  amiss,”  replied  a  female  voice ;  “  but 
her  companion  was  far  the  handsomer  figure  of  the  two. 
Could  they  be  really  a  peasant  and  a  contadina,  do  you 
imagine  ?  ” 

“No,  no,”  said  the  other.  “  It  is  some  frolic  of  the 
carnival,  carried  a  little  too  far.” 

This  conversation  might  have  excited  Kenyon’s  inter¬ 
est;  only  that,  just  as  the  last  words  were  spoken,  he 
was  hit  by  two  missiles,  both  of  a  kind  that  were  flying 
abundantly  on  that  gay  battle-field.  One,  we  are  ashamed 
to  say,  was  a  cauliflower,  which,  flung  by  a  young  man 
from  a  passing  carriage,  came  with  a  prodigious  thump 
against  his  shoulder ;  the  other  was  a  single  rosebud,  so 
fresh  that  it  seemed  that  moment  gathered.  It  flew  from 


244 


ROMANCE  OP  MONTE  BENI. 


the  opposite  baleony,  smote  gently  on  his  lips,  and  fell 
into  his  hand.  He  looked  upward,  and  beheld  the  faee 
of  his  lost  Hilda  ! 

She  was  dressed  in  a  white  domino,  and  looked  pale 
and  bewildered,  and  yet  full  of  tender  joy.  Moreover, 
there  was  a  gleam  of  delieate  mirthfulness  in  her  eyes, 
whieh  the  sculptor  had  seen  there  only  two  or  three  times, 
in  the  course  of  their  acquaintance,  but  thought  it  the 
most  bewitching  and  fairylike  of  all  Hilda’s  expressions. 
That  soft,  mirthful  smile  caused  her  to  melt,  as  it  were, 
into  the  wild  frolic  of  the  carnival,  and  become  not  so 
strange  and  alien  to  the  scene,  as  her  unexpected  appa¬ 
rition  must  otherwise  have  made  her. 

Meanwhile,  the  venerable  Englishman  and  his  daugh¬ 
ters  were  staring  at  poor  Hilda  in  a  way  that  proved  them 
altogether  astonished,  as  well  as  inexpressibly  shocked,  by 
her  sudden  intrusion  into  their  private  balcony.  They 
looked,  —  as,  indeed,  English  people  of  respectability 
would,  if  an  angel  were  to  alight  in  their  circle,  without 
due  introduction  from  somebody  whom  they  knew,  in  the 
court  above,  —  they  looked  as  if  an  unpardonable  liberty 
had  been  taken,  and  a  suitable  apology  must  be  made ; 
after  which,  the  intruder  would  be  expected  to  withdraw. 

The  abbate,  however,  drew  the  old  gentleman  aside, 
and  whispered  a  few  words  that  served  to  mollify  him  ; 
he  bestowed  on  Hilda  a  suificiently  benignant,  though  still 
a  perplexed  and  questioning  regard,  and  invited  her,  in 
dumb-show,  to  put  herself  at  her  ease. 

But,  whoever  was  in  fault,  our  shy  and  gentle  Hilda 
had  dreamed  of  no  intrusion.  Whence  she  had  come,  or 
where  she  had  been  hidden,  during  this  mysterious  inter¬ 
val,  we  can  but  imperfectly  surmise,  and  do  not  mean,  at 
present,  to  make  it  a  matter  of  formal  explanation  with 
the  reader.  It  is  better,  perhaps,  to  fancy  that  she  had 


A  FROLIC  OF  THE  CARNIVAL. 


245 


been  snatched  away  to  a  land  of  picture  ;  that  she  liad 
been  straying  with  Claude  in  the  golden  light  which  he 
used  to  shed  over  his  landscapes,  but  which  he  could 
never  have  beheld  with  his  waking  eyes,  till  he  awoke  in 
the  better  clime.  We  will  imagine  that,  for  the  sake  of 
the  true  simplicity  with  which  she  loved  them,  Hilda  had 
been  permitted,  for  a  season,  to  converse  with  the  great, 
departed  masters  of  the  pencil,  and  behold  the  diviner 
works  wliich  they  have  painted  in  heavenly  colors.  Guido 
had  shown  her  another  portrait  of  Beatrice  Cenci,  done 
from  the  celestial  life,  in  which  that  forlorn  mystery  of 
the  earthly  countenance  was  exchanged  for  a  radiant  joy. 
Perugino  had  allowed  her  a  glimpse  at  his  easel,  on  which 
she  discerned  what  seemed  a  woman’s  face,  but  so  divine, 
by  the  very  depth  and  softness  of  its  womanhood,  that  a 
gush  of  happy  tears  blinded  the  maiden’s  eyes,  before  she 
had  time  to  look.  Raphael  had  taken  Hilda  by  the  hand,  ^ 
—  that  fine,  forcible  hand  which  Kenyon  sculptured,  — 
and  drawn  aside  the  curtain  of  gold-fringed  cloud  that 
hung  before  his  latest  masterpiece.  On  earth,  Raphael 
painted  the  Transfiguration.  What  higher  scene  may  he 
have  since  depicted,  not  from  imagination,  but  as  revealed 
to  his  actual  sight ! 

Neither  will  we  retrace  the  steps  by  which  she  returned 
to  the  actual  world.  Por  the  present  be  it  enough  to  say 
that  Hilda  had  been  summoned  forth  from  a  secret  place, 
and  led  we  know  not  through  what  mysterious  passages, 
to  a  point  where  the  tumult  of  life  burst  suddenly  upon 
her  ears.  She  heard  the  tramp  of  footsteps,  the  rattle  of 
wheels,  and  the  mingled  hum  of  a  multitude  of  voices, 
with  strains  of  music  and  loud  laughter  breaking  through. 
Emerging  into  a  great,  gloomy  hall,  a  curtain  was  drawn 
aside  ;  she  found  herself  gently  propelled  into  an  open 
balcony,  whence  she  looked  out  upon  the  festal  street. 


246 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


with  gay  tapestries  flaunting  over  all  the  palace  fronts, 
the  windows  thronged  with  merry  faces,  and  a  crowd  of 
maskers  rioting  upon  the  pavement  below. 

Immediately,  she  seemed  to  become  a  portion  of  the 
scene.  Her  pale,  large-eyed,  fragile  beauty,  her  wonder¬ 
ing  aspect,  and  bewildered  grace,  attracted  the  gaze  of 
many ;  and  there  fell  around  her  a  shower  of  bouquets 
and  bonbons  —  freshest  blossoms  and  sweetest  suerar- 
plums,  sweets  to  the  sweet  —  such  as  the  revellers  of  the 
carnival  reserve  as  tributes  to  especial  loveliness.  Hilda 
pressed  her  hand  across  her  brow ;  she  let  her  eyelids 
fall,  and,  lifting  them  again,  looked  through  the  grotesque 
and  gorgeous  show,  the  chaos  of  mad  jollity,  in  quest  of 
some  object  by  which  she  might  assure  herself  that  the 
whole  spectacle  was  not  an  illusion. 

Beneath  the  balcony,  she  recognized  a  familiar  and 
,  fondly  remembered  face.  The  spirit  of  the  hour  and  the 
scene  exercised  its  influence  over  her  quick  and  sensitive 
nature  ;  she  caught  up  one  of  the  rosebuds  that  had  been 
showered  upon  her,  and  aimed  it  at  the  sculptor.  It  hit 
the  mark ;  he  turned  his  sad  eyes  upward,  and  there  was 
Hilda,  in  whose  gentle  presence  his  own  secret  sorrow  and 
the  obtrusive  uproar  of  the  carnival  alike  died  away  from 
his  perception. 

That  night,  the  lamp  beneath  the  Virgin’s  shrine  burned 
as  brightly  as  if  it  had  never  been  extinguished ;  and  though 
the  one  faithful  dove  had  gone  to  her  melancholy  perch, 
she  greeted  Hilda  rapturously  the  next  morning,  and 
summoned  her  less  constant  companions,  whithersoever 
they  had  flown,  to  renew  their  homage. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

MIRIAM,  HILDA,  KENYON,  DONATELLO. 


P'“^|ra|||TIE  gentle  reader,  we  trust,  would  not  thank  us 
for  one  of  those  minute  elucidations,  which  are 
so  tedious,  and,  after  all,  so  unsatisfactory,  in 
clearing  up  the  romantic  mysteries  of  a  story.  He  is  too 
wise  to  insist  upon  looking  closely  at  the  wrong  side  of 
the  tapestry,  after  the  right  one  has  been  sufficiently  dis¬ 
played  to  him,  woven  with  the  best  of  the  artist’s  skill, 
and  cunningly  arranged  with  a  view  to  the  harmonious 
exhibition  of  its  colors.  If  any  brilliant,  or  beautiful,  or 
even  tolerable  effect  have  been  produced,  this  pattern  of 
kindly  readers  will  accept  it  at  its  worth,  without  tearing 
its  web  apart,  with  the  idle  purpose  of  discovering  how 
the  threads  have  been  knit  together  ;  for  the  sagacity  by 
which  he  is  distinsruished  will  Ions:  a£:o  have  taught  him 


that  any  narrative  of  human  action  and  adventure  — 
whether  we  call  it  history  or  romance  —  is  certain  to 
be  a  fragile  handiwork,  more  easily  rent  than  mended. 
The  actual  experience  of  even  the  most  ordinary  life  is 
full  of  events  tliat  never  explain  themselves,  either  as 
regards  their  origin  or  their  tendency. 

It  would  be  easy,  from  conversations  which  we  have 
held  with  the  sculptor,  to  suggest  a  clew  to  the  mystery 


248 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


of  Hilda’s  disappearance;  altlioiigh  as  long  as  she  re- 
•  inained  in  Italy  there  was  a  remarkable  reserve  in  her 
communications  upon  this  subject,  even  to  her  most  inti¬ 
mate  friends.  Either  a  pledge  of  secrecy  had  been  ex¬ 
acted,  or  a  prudential  motive  warned  her  not  to  reveal 
the  stratagems  of  a  religious  body,  or  the  secret  acts  of 
a  despotic  government  —  whichever  might  be  responsible 
in  the  present  instance  —  while  still  within  the  scope  of 
their  jurisdiction.  Possibly,  she  might  not  herself  be 
fully  aware  what  power  had  laid  its  grasp  upon  her  per¬ 
son.  What  has  chiefly  perplexed  us,  however,  among 
Hilda’s  adventures,  is  the  mode  of  her  release,  in  which 
some  inscrutable  tyranny  or  other  seemed  to  take  part 
in  the  frolic  of  the  carnival.  We  can  only  account  for 
it,  by  supposing  that  the  fitful  and  fantastic  imagination 
of  a  woman  —  sportive,  because  she  must  otherwise  be 
desperate  —  had  arranged  this  incident,  and  made  it  the 
condition  of  a  step  wEich  her  conscience,  or  the  con¬ 
science  of  another,  required  her  to  take. 

A  few  days  after  Hilda’s  reappearance,  she  and  the 
sculptor  were  straying  together  through  the  streets  of 
Home.  Being  deep  in  talk,  it  so  happened  that  they 
found  themselves  near  the  majestic,  pillared  portico, 
and  huge,  black  rotundity  of  the  Pantheon.  It  stands 
almost  at  the  central  point  of  the  labyrinthine  intricacies 
of  the  modern  city,  and  often  presents  itself  before  the 
bewildered  stranger  when  he  is  in  search  of  other  objects. 
Hilda,  looking  up,  proposed  that  they  should  enter. 

“I  never  pass  it  without  going  in,”  she  said,  “to  pay 
my  homage  at  the  tomb  of  Raphael.” 

“Nor  I,”  said  Kenyon,  “without  stopping  to  admire 
the  noblest  edifice  which  the  barbarism  of  the  early  ages, 
and  the  more  barbarous  pontiffs  and  princes  of  later  ones, 
have  spared  to  us.” 


MIIlIA:\r,  HILDA,  KENYOX,  DONATELLO.  249 


They  went  in,  accordingly,  and  stood  in  the  free  space 
of  that  great  circle,  around  which  are  ranged  the  arched 
recesses  and  stately  altars,  formerly  dedicated  to  heathen 
gods,  but  Christianized  through  twelve  centuries  gone 
by.  The  world  has  nothing  else  like  the  Pantheon.  So 
grand  it  is,  that  the  pasteboard  statues  over  the  lofty 
cornice  do  not  disturb  the  effect,  any  more  than  the  tin 
crowns  and  hearts,  the  dusty  artificial  flowers,  and  all 
manner  of  trumpery  gewgaws,  hanging  at  the  saintly 
shrines.  The  rust  and  dinginess  that  have  dimmed  the 
precious  marble  on  the  walls ;  the  pavement,  with  its 
great  squares  and  rounds  of  porphyry  and  granite, 
cracked  crosswise  and  in  a  hundred  directions,  showing 
how  roughly  the  troublesome  ages  have  trampled  here ; 
the  gray  dome  above,  with  its  opening  to  the  sky,  as 
if  heaven  were  looking  down  into  the  interior  of  this 
place  of  worship,  left  unimpeded  for  prayers  to  ascend 
the  more  freely :  all  these  things  make  an  impression 
of  solemnity,  which  St.  Peter’s  itself  fails  to  produce. 

“I  think,”  said  the  sculptor,  “it  is  to  the  aperture  in 
the  dome  —  that  great  Eye,  gazing  heavenward  —  that 
the  Pantheon  owes  the  peculiarity  of  its  effect.  It  is 
so  heathenish,  as  it  were,  —  so  unlike  all  the  snugness 
of  our  modern  civilization  !  Look,  too,  at  the  pavement, 
directly  beneath  the  open  space !  So  much  rain  has 
fallen  there,  in  the  last  two  thousand  years,  that  it  is 
green  with  small,  fine  moss,  such  as  growls  over  tomb¬ 
stones  in  a  damp  English  churchyard.” 

“  I  like  better,”  replied  Hilda,  “  to  look  at  the  bright, 
blue  sky,  roofing  the  edifice  where  the  builders  left  it 
open.  It  is  very  delightful,  in  a  breezy  day,  to  see  the 
masses  of  white  cloud  float  over  the  opening,  and  then 
the  sunshine  fall  through  it  again,  fitfully,  as  it  does  now. 
Would  it  be  any  wonder  if  we  were  to  see  angels  hover- 


250 


UOMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


ing  there,  partly  in  and  partly  out,  with  genial,  heavenly 
faces,  not  intercepting  the  light,  hut  only  transmuting  it 
into  beautiful  colors  ?  Look  at  that  broad,  golden  beam 
—  a  sloping  cataract  of  sunlight  —  which  comes  down 
from  the  aperture  and  rests  upon  the  shrine,  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  entrance  !  ” 

“  There  is  a  dusky  picture  over  that  altar,”  observed 
the  sculptor.  “  Let  us  go  and  see  if  this  strong  illumi¬ 
nation  brings  out  any  merit  in  it.” 

Approaching  the  shrine,  they  found  the  picture  little 
worth  looking  at,  but  could  not  forbear  smiling,  to  see 
that  a  very  plump  and  comfortable  tabby-cat  —  whom  we 
ourselves  have  often  observed  haunting  the  Pantheon  — ■ 
had  established  herself  on  the  altar,  in  the  genial  sun¬ 
beam,  and  was  fast  asleep  among  the  holy  tapers.  Their 
footsteps  disturbing  her,  she  awoke,  raised  herself,  and 
sat  blinking  in  the  sun,  yet  with  a  certain  dignity  and 
self-possession,  as  if  conscious  of  representing  a  saint. 

“  I  presume,”  remarked  Kenyon,  “  that  this  is  the  first 
of  the  feline  race  that  has  ever  set  herself  up  as  an  ob¬ 
ject  of  worship,  in  the  Pantheon  or  elsewhere,  since  the 
days  of  ancient  Egypt.  See;  there  is  a  peasant  from 
the  neighboring  market,  actually  kneeling  to  her !  She 
seems  a  gracious  and  benignant  saint  enough.” 

“  Do  not  make  me  laugh,”  said  Hilda,  reproachfully, 
‘‘but  help  me  to  drive  the  creature  away.  It  distresses 
me  to  see  that  poor  man,  or  any  human  being,  directing 
his  prayers  so  much  amiss.” 

“  Then,  Hilda,”  answered  the  sculptor,  more  seriously, 
“  the  only  place  in  the  Pantheon  for  you  and  me  to  kneel, 
is  on  the  pavement  beneath  the  central  aperture.  If  we 
pray  at  a  saint’s  shrine,  we  shall  give  utterance  to  earthly 
wishes ;  but  if  we  pray  face  to  face  with  the  Deity,^we 
shall  feel  it  impious  to  petition  for  aught  that  is  narrow 


MIRIAM,  HILDA,  KENYON,  DONATELLO.  251 

and  selfish.  Methinks,  it  is  this  that  makes  the  Catho¬ 
lics  so  delight  in  the  worship  of  saints ;  they  can  bring 
up  all  their  little  worldly  wants  and  whims,  their  in¬ 
dividualities  and  human  weaknesses,  not  as  things  to 
be  repented  of,  but  to  be  humored  by  the  canonized 
humanity  to  which  they  pray.  Indeed,  it  is  very  tempt¬ 
ing  !  ” 

What  Hilda  might  have  answered  must  be  left  to  con¬ 
jecture  ;  for  as  she  turned  from  the  shrine,  her  eyes  were 
attracted  to  the  figure  of  a  female  penitent,  kneeling  on 
the  pavement  just  beneath  the  great  central  eye,  in  the 
very  spot  which  Kenyon  had  designated  as  the  only  one 
whence  prayers  should  ascend.  The  upturned  face  was 
invisible,  behind  a  veil  or  mask,  which  formed  a  part  of 
the  garb. 

“  It  cannot  be !  ”  whispered  Hilda,  with  emotion. 
“No  ;  it  cannot  be  1  ” 

“  Wiiat  disturbs  you  ?  ”  asked  Kenyon.  “  Why  do 
you  tremble  so  ?  ” 

“  If  it  were  possible,”  she  replied,  “  I  should  fancy 
that  kneeling  figure  to  be  Miriam !  ” 

“  As  you  say,  it  is  impossible,”  rejoined  the  sculptor. 
“  We  know  too  well  what  has  befallen  both  her  and 
Donatello.” 

“  Yes  ;  it  is  impossible  !  ”  repeated  Hilda. 

Her  voice  was  still  tremulous,  however,  and  she  seemed 
unable  to  withdraw  her  attention  from  the  kneeling  figure. 
Suddenly,  and  as  if  the  idea  of  Miriam  had  opened  the 
whole  volume  of  Hilda’s  reminiscences,  she  put  this  ques¬ 
tion  to  the  sculptor :  — 

“  Was  Donatello  really  a  Faun  ?  ” 

“  If  you  had  ever  studied  the  pedigree  of  the  far-de¬ 
scended  heir  of  Monte  Beni,  as  I  did,”  answered  Kenyon, 
with  an  irrepressible  smile,  “you  would  have  retained  few 


252 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


doubts  on  that  point.  Taun  or  not,  he  had  a  genial 
nature,  Avhich,  had  the  rest  of  mankind  been  in  aecord- 
anee  with  it,  would  have  made  earth  a  paradise  to  our 
poor  friend.  It  seems  the  moral  of  his  story,  that  human 
beings  of  Donatello’s  character,  compounded  especially  for 
happiness,  have  no  longer  any  business  on  earth,  or  else¬ 
where.  Life  has  grown  so  sadly  serious,  that  such  men 
must  change  their  nature,  or  else  perish,  like  the  ante¬ 
diluvian  creatures,  that  required,  as  the  condition  of  their 
existence,  a  more  summer-like  atmosphere  than  ours.” 

“  I  will  not  accept  your  moral !  ”  replied  the  hopeful 
and  happy-natured  Hilda. 

“  Then  here  is  another ;  take  your  choice  !  ”  said  the 
sculptor,  remembering  what  Miriam  had  recently  sug¬ 
gested,  in  reference  to  the  same  point.  “  He  perpetrated 
a  great  crime ;  and  his  remorse,  gnawing  into  his  soul, 
has  awakened  it ;  developing  a  thousand  high  capabilities, 
moral  and  intellectual,  which  we  never  should  have 
dreamed  of  asking  for,  within  the  scanty  compass  of  the 
Donatello  whom  we  knew.” 

“  I  know  not  whether  this  is  so,”  said  Hilda.  “  But 
what  then  ?  ” 

“  Here  comes  my  perplexity,”  continued  Kenyon. 
‘‘  Sin  has  educated  Donatello,  and  elevated  him.  Is  sin, 
then,  —  which  we  deem  such  a  dreadful  blackness  in  the 
universe,  —  is  it,  like  sorrow,  merely  an  element  of  human 
education,  through  which  we  struggle  to  a  higher  and 
purer  state  than  we  could  otherwise  have  attained  ?  Did 
Adam  fall,  that  we  might  ultimately  rise  to  a  far  loftier 
paradise  than  his  ?  ” 

“  0,  hush  !  ”  cried  Hilda,  shrinking  from  him  with  an 
expression  of  horror  which  wounded  the  poor,  speculative 
sculptor  to  the  soul.  “  This  is  terrible  ;  and  I  could  weep 
for  you,  if  you  indeed  believe  it.  Do  not  you  perceive 


MIRIAM,  HILDA,  KENYON,  DONATELLO.  253 


wliat  a  mockery  your  creed  makes,  not  only  of  all  relig¬ 
ious  sentiments,  but  of  moral  law  ?  and  how  it  annuls 
and  obliterates  whatever  precepts  of  Heaven  are  written 
deepest  within  us  ?  You  have  shoeked  me  beyond  words  !  ” 

“  Forgive  me,  Hilda  !  ”  exclaimed  the  sculptor,  startled 
by  her  agitation  ;  “  I  never  did  believe  it !  But  the  mind 
wanders  wild  and  wide ;  and,  so  lonely  as  I  live  and  work, 
I  have  neither  polestar  above,  nor  light  of  cottage-win¬ 
dows  here  below,  to  bring  me  home.  Were  you  my 
guide,  my  counsellor,  my  inmost  friend,  with  that  white 
wisdom  which  clothes  you  as  a  celestial  garment,  all 
would  go  well.  O  Hilda,  guide  me  home  !  ” 

“We  are  both  lonely;  both  far  from  home!”  said 
Hilda,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears.  “  I  am  a  poor,  weak 
girl,  and  have  no  sueh  wisdom  as  you  fancy  in  me.” 

What  further  may  have  passed  between  these  lovers, 
while  standing  before  the  pillared  shrine,  and  the  marble 
Madonna  that  marks  Raphael’s  tomb,  whither  they  had 
now  wandered,  we  are  unable  to  record.  But  when  the 
kneeling  figure  beneath  the  open  eye  of  the  Pantheon 
arose,  she  looked  towards  the  pair,  and  extended  her 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  benediction.  Then  they  knew 
that  it  was  Miriam.  They  suffered  her  to  glide  out  of 
the  portal,  however,  without  a  greeting;  for  those  ex¬ 
tended  hands,  even  while  they  blessed,  seemed  to  repel, 
as  if  Miriam  stood  on  the  other  side  of  a  fathomless 
abyss,  and  warned  them  from  its  verge. 

So  Kenyon  won  the  gentle  Hilda’s  shy  affection,  and 
her  consent  to  be  his  bride.  Another  hand  must  henee- 
forth  trim  the  lamp  before  the  Virgin’s  shrine ;  for  Hilda 
was  coming  down  from  her  old  tower,  to  be  herself  en¬ 
shrined  and  worshipped  as  a  household  saint,  in  the  light 
of  her  husband’s  fireside.  And,  now  that  life  had  so  much 
human  promise  in  it,  they  resolved  to  go  back  to  their  own 


254 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


land;  because  the  years,  after  all,  have  a  kind  of  emptiness, 
when  we  spend  too  many  of  them  on  a  foreign  shore.  We 
defer  the  reality  of  life,  in  such  cases,  until  a  future  mo¬ 
ment,  when  we  shall  again  breathe  our  native  air  ;  but, 
by  and  by,  there  are  no  future  moments ;  or,  if  we  do  re¬ 
turn,  we  find  that  the  native  air  has  lost  its  invigorating 
quality,  and  that  life  has  shifted  its  reality  to  the  spot 
where  we  have  deemed  ourselves  only  temporary  resi¬ 
dents.  Thus,  between  two  countries,  we  have  none  at  all, 
or  only  that  little  space  of  either,  in  which  we  finally  lay 
down  our  discontented  bones.  It  is  wise,  therefore,  to 
come  back  betimes,  or  never. 

Before  they  quitted  Rome,  a  bridal  gift  was  laid  on 
Hilda’s  table.  It  was  a  bracelet,  evidently  of  great  cost, 
being  composed  of  seven  ancient  Etruscan  gems,  dug  out 
of  seven  sepulchres,  and  each  one  of  them  the  signet  of 
some  princely  personage,  who  had  lived  an  immemorial 
time  ago.  Hilda  remembered  this  precious  ornament. 
It  had  been  Miriam’s;  and  once,  with  the  exuberance 
of  fancy  that  distinguished  her,  she  had  amused  herself 
with  telling  a  mythical  and  magic  legend  for  each  gem, 
comprising  the  imaginary  adventures  and  catastrophe  of 
its  former  wearer.  Thus,  the  Etruscan  bracelet  became 
the  connecting  bond  of  a  series  of  seven  wondrous  tales, 
all  of  which,  as  they  were  dug  out  of  seven  sepulchres, 
were  characterized  by  a  seven-fold  sepulchral  gloom ;  such 
as  Miriam’s  imagination,  shadowed  by  her  own  misfor¬ 
tunes,  was  wont  to  fling  over  its  most  sportive  flights. 

And  now,  happy  as  Hilda  was,  the  bracelet  brought  the 
tears  into  her  eyes,  as  being,  in  its  entire  circle,  the  sym¬ 
bol  of  as  sad  a  mystery  as  any  that  Miriam  had  attached 
to  the  separate  gems.  Eor,  what  was  Miriam’s  life  to  be  ? 
And  where  was  Donatello  ?  But  Hilda  had  a  hopeful 
soul,  and  saw  sunlight  on  the  mountain-tops. 


CONCLUSION. 


255 


CONCLUSION. 

There  comes  to  the  author,  from  many  readers  of  the 
foregoing  pages,  a  demand  for  further  elucidations  re¬ 
specting  the  mysteries  of  the  story. 

He  reluctantly  avails  himself  of  the  opportmiity  af¬ 
forded  by  a  new  edition,  to  explain  such  incidents  and 
passages  as  may  have  been  left  too  much  in  the  dark ; 
reluctantly,  he  repeats,  because  the  necessity  makes  him 
sensible  that  he  can  have  succeeded  but  imperfectly,  at 
best,  in  throwing  about  this  Romance  the  kind  of  atmos¬ 
phere  essential  to  the  effect  at  which  he  aimed. 

He  designed  the  story  and  the  characters  to  bear,  of 
course,  a  certain  relation  to  human  nature  and  human 
life,  but  still  to  be  so  artfully  and  airily  removed  from  our 
mundane  sphere,  that  some  laws  and  proprieties  of  their 
own  should  be  implicitly  and  insensibly  acknowledged. 

The  idea  of  the  modem  Faun,  for  example,  loses  all 
the  poetry  and  beauty  which  the  Author  fancied  in  it,  and 
becomes  nothing  better  than  a  grotesque  absurdity,  if  we 
bring  it  into  the  actual  light  of  day.  He  had  hoped  to 
mystify  this  anomalous  creature  between  the  Real  and  the 
Fantastic,  in  such  a  manner  that  the  reader’s  sympathies 
might  be  excited  to  a  certain  pleasurable  degree,  without 
impelling  him  to  ask  how  Cuvier  would  have  classified 
poor  Donatello,  or  to  insist  upon  being  told,  in  so  many 
words,  whether  he  had  furry  ears  or  no.  As  respects 
all  who  ask  such  questions,  the  book  is,  to  that  extent,  a 
failure. 

Nevertheless,  the  Author  fortunately  has  it  in  his 
power  to  throw  light  upon  several  matters  in  which 
some  of  his  readers  appear  to  feel  an  interest.  To  con¬ 
fess  the  truth,  he  was  himself  troubled  with  a  curiosity 
similar  to  that  which  he  has  just  deprecated  on  the  part 


256 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


of  his  readers,  and  once  took  occasion  to  cross-examine 
his  friends,  Hilda  and  the  sculptor,  and  to  pry  into  sev¬ 
eral  dark  recesses  of  the  story,  with  which  they  had 
heretofore  imperfectly  acquainted  him. 

We  three  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  St.  Peter’s, 
and  were  looking  down  upon  the  Rome  we  were  soon 
to  leave,  but  which  (having  already  sinned  sufficiently 
in  that  way)  it  is  not  my  purpose  further  to  describe. 
It  occurred  to  me,  that,  being  so  remote  in  the  upper 
air,  my  friends  might  safely  utter,  here,  the  secrets  which 
it  would  be  perilous  even  to  whisper,  on  lower  earth. 

“  Hilda,”  I  began,  “  can  you  tell  me  the  contents  of 
that  mysterious  packet  which  Miriam  intrusted  to  your 
charge,  and  which  was  addressed  to  Signore  Luca  Bar- 
boni,  at  the  Palazzo  Cenci  ?  ” 

“I  never  had  any  further  knowledge  of  it,”  replied 
Hilda,  “  nor  felt  it  right  to  let  myself  be  curious  upon 
the  subject.” 

“  As  to  its  precise  contents,”  interposed  Kenyon,  it 
is  impossible  to  speak.  But  Miriam,  isolated  as  she 
seemed,  had  family  connections  in  Rome,  one  of  whom, 
there  is  reason  to  believe,  occupied  a  position  in  the 
Papal  government. 

“  This  Signore  Luca  Barboni  was  either  the  assumed 
name  of  the  personage  in  question,  or  the  medium  of 
communication  between  that  individual  and  Miriam. 
Now,  under  such  a  government  as  that  of  Rome,  it  is 
obvious  that  Miriam’s  privacy  and  isolated  life  could 
only  be  maintained  through  the  connivance  and  support 
of  some  influential  person  connected  with  the  admin¬ 
istration  of  affairs.  Tree  and  self-controlled  as  she 
appeared,  her  every  movement  was  watched  and  inves¬ 
tigated  far  more  thoroughly  by  the  priestly  rulers  than 
by  her  dearest  friends. 


CONCLUSION. 


257 


“  Mlriain,  if  I  mistake  not,  had  a  purpose  to  withdraw 
herself  from  this  irksome  scrutiny,  and  to  seek  real  ob¬ 
scurity  in  another  land ;  and  the  packet,  to  be  delivered 
long  after  her  departure,  contained  a  reference  to  this 
design,  besides  certain  family  documents,  which  were  to 
be  imparted  to  her  relative  as  from  one  dead  and  gone.” 

“  Yes,  it  is  clear  as  a  London  fog,”  I  remarked.  “  On 
this  head  no  further  elucidation  can  be  desired.  But 
when  Hilda  went  quietly  to  deliver  the  packet,  why  did 
she  so  mysteriously  vanish  ?  ” 

“  You  must  recollect,”  replied  Kenyon,  with  a  glance 
of  friendly  commiseration  at  my  obtuseness,  “  that  Mir¬ 
iam  had  utterly  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace  by  which 
her  whereabouts  could  be  known.  In  the  meantime,  the 
municipal  authorities  had  become  aware  of  the  murder  of 
the  Capuchin ;  and  from  many  preceding  circumstances, 
such  as  his  persecution  of  Miriam,  they  must  have  seen 
an  obvious  connection  between  herself  and  that  tragical 
event.-  Eurthermore,  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  Mir¬ 
iam  was  suspected  of  connection  with  some  plot,  or 
political  intrigue,  of  which  there  may  have  been  tokens 
ill  the  packet.  And  when  Hilda  appeared,  as  the  bearer 
of  this  missive,  it  was  really  quite  a  matter  of  course, 
under  a  despotic  government,  that  she  should  be  de¬ 
tained.” 

“  Ah,  quite  a  matter  of  course,  as  you  say,”  answered 
I.  “  How  excessively  stupid  in  me  not  to  have  seen  it 
sooner !  But  there  are  other  riddles.  On  the  night  of 
the  extinction  of  the  lamp,  you  met  Donatello  in  a  peni¬ 
tent’s  garb,  and  afterwards  saw  and  spoke  to  Miriam,  in 
a  coach,  with  a  gem  glowing  on  her  bosom.  What  was 
the  business  of  these  two  guilty  ones  in  Rome,  and  wlio 
was  Miriam’s  companion  ?  ” 

“  Wlio  !  ”  repeated  Kenyon,  “  why  her  official  relative, 

G 


258 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


to  be  sure ;  and  as  to  tlieir  business,  Donatello’s  still 
gnawing  remorse  bad  brought  liim  hitherward,  in  spite 
^  of  Miriam’s  entreaties,  and  kept  him  lingering  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Rome,  with  the  ultimate  purpose  of 
delivering  himself  up  to  justice.  Hilda’s  disappearance, 
which  took  place  the  day  before,  was  known  to  them 
through  a  secret  channel,  and  had  brought  them  into  the 
city,  where  Miriam,  as  I  surmise,  began  to  make  arrange¬ 
ments,  even  then,  for  that  sad  frolic  of  the  Carnival.” 

“  And  where  was  Hilda  all  that  dreary  time  between  ?  ” 
inquired  I. 

“  Where  were  you,  Hilda  ?  ”  asked  Kenyon,  smiling. 

Hilda  threw  her  eyes  on  all  sides,  and  seeing  that  there 
was  not  even  a  bird  of  the  air  to  fly  away  with  the  secret, 
nor  any  human  being  nearer  than  the  loiterers  by  the 
obelisk,  in  the  piazza  below,  she  told  us  about  her  mys¬ 
terious  abode. 

‘‘  I  was  a  prisoner  in  the  Convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur, 
in  the  Trinita  de’  Monte,”  said  she,  ‘"but  in  such  kindly 
custody  of  pious  maidens,  and  watched  over  by  such  a 
dear  old  priest,  that  —  had  it  not  been  for  one  or  two 
disturbing  recollections,  and  also  because  I  am  a  daughter 
of  the  Puritans  —  I  could  willingly  have  dwelt  there  for¬ 
ever. 

“My  entanglement  with  Miriam’s  misfortunes,  and  the 
good  abbate’s  mistaken  hope  of  a  proselyte,  seem  to  me 
^  sufficient  clew  to  the  whole  mystery.” 

“  The  atmosphere  is  getting  delightfully  lucid,”  ob¬ 
served  I,  “but  there  are  one  or  two  things  that  still 
puzzle  me.  Could  you  tell  me  —  and  it  shall  be  kept  a 
profound  secret,  I  assure  you  —  what  were  Miriam’s  real 
name  and  rank,  and  precisely  the  nature  of  the  troubles 
that  led  to  all  those  direful  consequences  ?  ” 

“  Is  it  possible  that  you  need  an  answer  to  those  ques- 


CONCLUSION. 


259 


tions  ?  ”  exclaimed  Kenyon,  with  an  aspect  of  vast  sur¬ 
prise.  “  Have  you  not  even  surmised  Miriam’s  name  ? 
Think  awhile,  and  you  will  assuredly  remember  it.  If 
not,  I  congratulate  you  most  sincerely;  for  it  indicates 
that  your  feelings  have  never  been  harrowed  by  one  of  the 
most  dreadful  and  mysterious  events  that  have  occurred 
wdthin  the  present  century  !  ” 

“Well,”  resumed  I,  after  an  interval  of  deep  consid¬ 
eration,  “  I  have  but  few  things  more  to  ask.  Where,  at 
this  moment,  is  Donatello  ?  ” 

“The  Castle  of  Saint  Angelo,”  said  Kenyon,  sadly, 
turning  his  face  towards  that  sepulchral  fortress,  “  is  no 
longer  a  prison ;  but  there  are  others  which  have  dun¬ 
geons  as  deep,  and  in  one  of  them,  I  fear,  lies  our  poor 
Kann. 

“  And  why,  then,  is  Miriam  at  large  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  Call  it  cruelty  if  you  like,  not  mercy,”  answered  Ken¬ 
yon.  “  But,  after  all,  her  crime  lay  merely  in  a  glance. 
She  did  no  murder !  ” 

“  Only  one  question  more,”  said  I,  with  intense  ear¬ 
nestness.  “  Did  Donatello’s  ears  resemble  those  of  the 
Eaun  of  Praxiteles  ?  ” 

“I  know,  but  may  not  tell,”  replied  Kenyon,  smiling 
mysteriously.  “  On  that  point,  at  all  events,  there  shall 
be  not  one  word  of  explanation.” 

Leamington,  March  14,  1860. 


Cambridge:  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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